


i'll be (your) home for christmas

by iconicponytail



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Roommates, an AU of my own AU, high grade idiocy and delusions, holiday trash, in which i try to redeem alice cooper by an undeserved amount, one shared brain cell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27966875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iconicponytail/pseuds/iconicponytail
Summary: “You arenotspending Christmas somewhere random and alone! I don’t care how much of a Scrooge you try to convince me you naturally are. I can’t condemn you to that.”His shoulders drop a little, and Betty feels a soft ache in her heart to see that he would have done it, if she’d asked. It is more than a small miracle that he’s entertaining how to solve her completely solvable problem.Just tell Alice that you live with a man. One you are not sleeping with. Which she might actually hate more than if you were, seeing as it points to all her fears of you dying alone.That’s when she gets a positively bonkers idea.It’s Veronica levels of unhinged, really....(or, a holiday trashbag of fake dating roommates)
Relationships: Alice Cooper & Betty Cooper, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 158
Kudos: 190
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is like any spin off: the original helps for context, but it’s also totally unnecessary considering this is an alternate universe. A fic I wrote last year, _in case I stand one little chance_ involves jughead and betty getting together despite a varchie breakup that tears them apart. This fic imagines the exact opposite—they’re thrown together closer when archie and veronica move in together, and jughead and betty become roommates. This is what I want injected into my own veins right now, and I hope it serves your needs, too. EAT UP FRIENDS.

  
  


Even though Thanksgiving hasn’t even quite arrived, Christmas decorations in Manhattan have already descended. **_Latching on like a parasite of capitalism_ ** _,_ Jughead had groaned via text on her subway ride home. Usually, this time of year gives Betty a burst of positive energy to push through the tedious weeks of grading and exams leading up to winter break. But this year, the festivity just reminds her of how stupidly much she’s taken on in addition to the usual end of year craziness faced by teachers in the New York Public School system. She’s overseeing the LGBTQ+ club bake sale at her school, thus spending her afternoons baking rainbow cupcakes in the single oven in their high school’s building with ten lovely but distracted sophomores. 

Then the theater director asked if she could direct the ballet portion of the Winter Show. The three girls performing are all far more talented than Betty had ever been at dance in high school, but they do frequently bicker about choreography and costumes to the point that they need a reasonable and compassionate adult to sit in on their rehearsals twice a week. 

Thus, Betty’s massively behind on grading already. Christmas reminds her that, on top of everything, she’s going to need to make room for dealing with whatever nonsense the Cooper/Smith/Blossom contingent cook up to stoke the already burning dumpster fire of their family drama. She’d skipping Thanksgiving this year—Polly is bearing the herculean effort of hosting her divorced mother and father _together_ with Penelope, her mother in law _and_ their father’s girlfriend. 

Betty, with a lot of coaching from her therapist, drew a hard line at that nightmare. 

She’ll catch up over the long weekend. She _will._ And she will eat an entire bowl of mashed potatoes by herself while entering grades and deep cleaning the apartment.

Shuffling down the sidewalk past tourists looking at their phones, Betty sighs, mentally going over the agenda for the rest of today. Meet Archie for his sweet but obvious _big news_ conversation, stay at the cafe and grade, and then take Jughead up on his offer to order two tons of Indian food and watch something she’ll pass out on the couch during. Probably a very dry documentary on the history of Venezuela, he’d hinted. _Really super duper boring, I promise. We wouldn’t want a repeat of that one about the feminist movement in Argentina._

Right, when they stayed up until two talking about how gender-based liberation movements have been thoroughly co-opted by neoliberals. The kind of thing that makes everybody leave them alone in the corner of the kitchen at parties. Or if you’re Betty, it’s the kind of thing that only makes you even more miserably, helplessly in love with your roommate.

She’s late, and Archie and Jug are already tucked into a table in the corner of the cafe. Archie is talking with his hands and Jughead has an enormous bite of croissant in his cheek; everything seems normal. Betty gives them a wave and points at the coffeebar—she’s desperate for just a little kick of caffeine. 

“Alright Arch,” Betty announces when she plops into the seat next to Jughead. “Out with it. What’s the plan?” She adjusts her ponytail, eternally self-conscious about what it looks like to 

Jughead, despite the fact that he’s seen her wear every hairstyle possible, including her post-shower drenched wet dog look or sweaty post HIIT workout. 

Archie, adorably, flusters. “How—did you know what this is about?”

Jughead muffles a laugh with a cough. “We might have placed bets, Arch.”

“Come _on,”_ Betty presses. “We all knew the moving-in-together thing was the final hurdle for you two. Do you have a ring? And if so, _please_ tell me it’s not at home. I have it on good authority that Veronica can physically _smell_ diamonds.”

Archie throws his head back and laughs. “God, no one can hide anything from you two.” Betty blushes at the implication. Apparently, she’s been successfully hiding a giant flaming crush on the man beside her for what—two years? Approaching three?

Jughead takes the next line. “We’re happy for you, dude. If you need me to hire private eye so that you have some dirt to come hard against whatever pre-nup she cooks up—”

Betty cuts him off with a glare. “He’s joking. But uh, _details,_ please! If I have to keep this a secret for a while I need to know everything. Or wait,” she hesitates, thinking of Veronica’s all-seeing eye. “Maybe tell me nothing.”

Archie flips through some photos and holds up an image of the ring. 

“Jesus, how many public school gym teacher salaries is that worth?” Jughead sputters.

Betty has the same question, but she decides to gloss over Jug’s brashness. “She’s gonna _die,_ Archie!”

He beams. “I’m picking it up tomorrow. Do you think you could hold onto it until the proposal?”

“Of course,” she vows. “As long as I’m not liable. I mean, you got that insured, right? Sorry, I’ll stop.” She doesn’t really want to know the financial details. Being close to Veronica can be complicated; Betty’s had about a decade of experience and still lives rent free in an ungodly expensive Manhattan high rise because of it. Whether the ring was funded entirely by Archie is absolutely none of her business.

(Though she knows she’ll spend the whole ride home on the train with Jughead speculating about it.)

“And I’m going to need some help with the proposal. I talked to some of the dance team at school…” 

The mere words _dance team_ give Betty a stressed eye-twitch after her afternoon with the ballet girls. She and Archie teach at the same Brooklyn high school—English and PE respectively. They both started the same year, but they’d even run in similar, if peripheral circles in college at NYU. Archie knows Betty will do whatever the hell he wants to do for the proposal and the dance team at school. Still, her eyelids ache in anticipation. 

Jughead must pick up on her flinch, because he takes over, drawing out the details. A flashmob in the place Archie and Veronica had their first official kiss as a _couple._ It’s adorable, and suddenly Betty’s body floods with a cocktail of adoration and pure, unbridled jealousy. 

They’re here talking about Archie and Veronica’s _engagement._ When Betty has known Jughead for exactly as long as her friends have known each other, considering everyone met at the same time. And Betty and Jughead are decidedly _not_ about to get engaged, as that would involve their relationship inching even _slightly_ away from platonic—despite whatever Veronica insists about Jughead being deeply and secretly in love with her in return.

For example, after Archie bids goodbye, hugs and preemptive congratulations exchanged, Betty and Jughead settle in to get some work done, as planned. Without asking, Jughead buys her another half-sweet vanilla latte, this time decaf. To Veronica, such an act proves his undying devotion. To Betty, it’s just... Jughead. Sure, he doesn’t do stuff like that for _anybody._ Jughead doesn’t exactly have Veronica Lodge’s social circle. When he finds people he cares about, he learns them. It’s proof that she and Jug are what they are—very close friends. Friends who know each other’s coffee orders, who can tell when the other is having a rough week. 

Regardless, Betty smiles gratefully at the gesture and he just shrugs, a little bashful, like he doesn’t deserve any attention or praise. 

It happens again on the train—he stands while she sits, leaning over her when a man tries to unwelcomely solicit her attention. It’s happened dozens of times, and Jug just moves closer to her. When they get off, if the man in question is still being an asshole, he puts a hand on the small of her back. It’s more protective than possessive, and of course, Betty never minds when he touches her.

Maybe, she thinks, when he shakes her gently awake after the documentary credits roll and asks if she wants to sleep in her bed, she can count the micro-beat of hesitation in between her slurred joke _can you carry me_ and his wry retort _not after eating two orders of naan._

But in the end, it’s always his hesitation that fuels her own.

  
  
  


“I think I’ve got everything,” he announces a bit stiltedly, hovering by the door with his trekking backpack. Jughead is leaving for Thanksgiving at the Andrews, his de facto family. Jughead’s family by law has been fractured by divorce and addiction, much like Betty’s, but pretty much for his whole life. His dad lives in Buffalo now, his Mom outside Detroit, his sister at college in Washington. He makes a trip out west to see Jellybean once a year, but not during the holidays; they each have their second families for that.

Jughead and Archie both offered for Betty to come too; Jug knows how hard to navigate familial waters can be, and Archie has a big heart and a long history of taking in those left adrift. But Betty knew this would be a sacred time for them. 

“This is it, huh? The last holiday of… _the boys,”_ Betty waggles her eyebrows because she knows he hates being referred to this way. 

Milking his gruff-voice, Jughead launches into a bit. “Ah yes, last day of the men shooting a bird and breaking its neck with our bare hands and placing bets on who will end up with the buckshot in their teeth.”

Betty rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, too. “It’s okay, Jug, to be sad about things changing.”

He shrugs. “They already have. It’s okay. I _like_ Veronica—though I’ll beg you not to repeat that.” She mimes zipping her lips shut, then wringing her fingers a little at the dismissive mention of things _already changing._ He could really only mean, this—them living together in the apartment formerly shared between Betty and Veronica.

Living together was always a hypothetical pipe dream, a plan they might vaguely enact once Veronica and Archie took the inevitable step of moving in together. Betty always imagined it would be a swap of herself for Archie, but instead, Veronica upsized and left Betty to live out the rest of the lease here. She didn’t even _have_ to live with someone. Everything was temporary—the lease ends in February.

But then Jughead surprised her and pushed the issue. _Well, we always said we would have each other in the wake of the great Andrews-Lodge union._ Betty thinks it had more to do with a few months of free rent and a trial period of being roommates with someone besides Archie. (Though she does think, all secret-desperate-romantic-feelings aside, that Jughead enjoys living with her. She’s extremely clean, has read a book in the last ten years, and stress bakes—three enormous steps up from Archie Andrews.)

“You’ll be okay on your own, right?” He asks, even though he’s already asked. It touches that nerve, the one that wonders if he moved in three months ago just because he felt bad for her living by herself. Jughead knows the nitty gritty of her mental health history—a fact that usually makes Betty feel very safe. 

Her smile is undoubtedly wincing ever so slightly, and she prays that if he sees through it, that he’ll ignore it. “I have like, six pounds of potatoes. What else does a girl need?”

“Someone to wash dishes,” he quips before pulling her in for a quick but tight hug. As always, Betty steps back as soon as possible in order to to avoid latching on and not letting go for too long. “Don’t wallow if you get lonely, okay? Just call me. I’m sure Fred and Archie would be delighted to play some games via Facetime.”

Before she can overthink it, Betty flirts, “What if I just want to fall asleep to a documentary with you?”

Jughead swallows and smiles, clearly pleased. Betty feels warmth burn all the way down her spine.

  
  
  


It’s nice to have the place to herself for a while. The grades get done, the potatoes mashed with herb-and-garlic infused cream and butter. Over the course of the weekend, a glut of cheesy Christmas rom-coms that Jughead would judge her for are consumed alongside an entire pumpkin pie. 

Despite her original intentions, Betty resists calling Polly out of guilt. Following her therapist’s advice, she texts her mom, dad, and sister together in a group text, ensuring that none of them will respond. _Happy Thanksgiving!_ Nothing else. No apologies for not attending the bloodbath. It’s growth, Betty tells herself, stomping out the ballooning guilt.

As further distraction, she dusts and catalogs Veronica’s items via text—pack, sell, donate—a task she volunteered to take on for the sake of the “gradual move out” and well, her own free rent. 

Every morning she makes too much coffee and texts a picture of the pot to Jughead. **_Habits die hard._ **

He texts her back a black emoji heart (the only one he sends on principal), and her flesh-and-blood heart palpitates, even though he’s almost certainly being wry. This, Betty thinks, is why after _years_ she cannot handle the idea of outright asking him if he has _any_ non-platonic feelings for her. 

She plays these scenarios out in daydreams—on the subway, in the shower, laying awake when she cannot quiet her brain. Even constructing the words she would say feels impossible, like her brain is a giant blinking cursor. _Jug, you know I love you. But I actually_ love _you._ She can imagine that word hitting him with recoil, like the collar of an itchy sweater. _Love_ is one of the things they don’t discuss. Betty knows Jughead cares for her very deeply, but if that’s true, wouldn’t he have done something by now?

Or is he just as stymied as her? 

She’s tried non-outright tactics. The first was a classic middle school move: ask Veronica to ask Archie, but her best friend shut that one down on the grounds of not being blamed for miscommunication. _You’re an adult, B. Talk to him._

About a year ago, she made up an elaborate story about giving anyone who asks her out at least one shot, if they were a friend—as if there were hordes of friends trying to date her. Jughead never bit. 

So finally, asking him to be her roommate was meant to test the waters, but that backfired, too. After all, perhaps it was an easy yes _because_ he’s not interested in her.

So Saturday night, once the pie plate is licked clean of graham cracker crumbs and left to dry on the dishrack, Betty decides to be a little more forthright, and calls him. 

“I take it you’ve burned through the latest sappy holiday movies on Getflix,” he greets, somehow accomplishing a dig at both Betty and himself. 

“Hey,” Betty defends. “I only cried once, so there. That’s growth.”

“Or,” he counters. “The narrative is growing dull. It takes something novel to evoke an emotional response.”

Betty haughs. “And what would you know about an _emotional response?”_ It’s not a particularly good segway into flirting, but whatever. 

“Hey—I _have_ cried at a film before. I just wouldn’t dare give you ammunition like that.”

Betty scoffs. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” There is some noise in the background. “Where are you?”

The noise intensifies for a second—it sounds like a train. “Oh sorry, yeah, I just got off at Grand Central.”

“What? You’re already back?” Betty looks down at herself, four days into a no-shower vegetative state— oily hair, bad breath, and an ensemble of leggings, lounge bra, and a loose crewneck that surely need to be _burned_ at this point. Sure, Jughead may see her in pretty much every state of being, but she’s a fraction more conscious of her appearance around him given the ever dwindling hope that he might be inspired to consider her romantically. 

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, kind of last minute. I just… It was a nice weekend, but I wanted a day to resettle. And I missed you. I mean—uh, yeah. You’re alone, so...” He clears his throat a little at the end, which he only does when he overshares. 

Despite the fact that her skin feels twenty degrees hotter as he trails off, the hitch in his voice makes Betty stop stripping her clothes off and preparing to run the shower. There are a million things stuck in her throat. _I’m fine by myself, you know,_ and _I hope you didn’t use me as a lame excuse to Fred,_ and _I missed you, too._

Jughead doesn’t just _say_ stuff like that, and Betty can’t plow on like usual, nor can she stop to draw attention to his vulnerability. She meets him in the middle. “Aww, well, perfect timing, because I’m moving from Lifetime movies to true crime.”

It’s not very forthright, Betty decides as she shaves her legs in the shower. But as she replays the awkward stammer in his voice over and over, she gets lost in the stupid Hallmark montage of her love, taking the train to be with her on the holidays. 

  
  
  


He texts **_don’t hate me but I’m starving and I just ordered a horrifying amount of pizza… and it will probably beat me home_** while she’s in the shower. She puts her phone down to get dressed in her most ass-accentuating pair of clean leggings and a cute but comfortable mockneck sweater. When her phone starts to ring, she doesn’t think twice about it not being the pizza delivery.

When the person on the other end doesn’t hardly say hello before launching into a tirade, Betty realizes her mistake with a deep (but silent) sigh.

“Elizabeth,” her mother begins, as if already mid rant, “When I tell you that the Riverdale town decoration committee has gone to pieces, I tell you—I’m driving down Main street and these treelights? Absolute budget crap! Half of these bulbs are burnt out. I can’t be the only person upset that we look like small town crap. This is a holiday _destination,_ for god’s sake. I bet I can get a handful of business owners to write in some letters to the editor on this one.”

At least, Betty tells herself, Alice isn’t already digging in on Betty’s refusal to attend family Thanksgiving yet. It’s a small gift that they’ll be warming up to that one. 

Her mother barrels on, raging against the new banners on Main, when she hears the front door open. Her hair is still damp and unstyled, but her brain lights up at the smell of pizza. Given the fact that she’s embarking on what will be, no doubt, a forty-five minute conversation, she needs fuel.

Pressing mute, assured that Alice is on a roll for a few minutes at least, Betty meets Jughead at the door. “Bless you for always over ordering,” she praises softly, even though her mother can’t hear.

Jughead snarks, _“Jughead, I missed you, and your presence is far better than any combination of dough and cheese—_ Sorry, kidding, not even I can compare my merits to pizza and expect to win.” His faux-grumpiness dissolves into a smile and Betty thinks: _But I_ did _miss you._

They drop the boxes on the counter and dig in. With his mouth full of a first bite, Jughead points to the phone. He asks something in pizza-mouth mumble that Betty translates into, “Is that your mom?”

Swallowing her own first bite, Betty nods. “You should hear this one, it’s good. Apparently the town Christmas decor this year is moving from classy to kitschy and she’s determined to figure out who’s responsible.” Betty turns on the speakerphone.

Alice, unsurprisingly, is still going strong. “Sierra McCoy is always going on and on about sourcing locally and celebrating this town’s ‘industry and artisans,’ but none of this is anything but cheap Glamazon crap! What happened to the glass blown ornaments? What kind of loyalty does anyone have to tradition anymore?”

Jughead is already laughing too hard to continue eating. “You know, as insane as she sounds, it’s a fair point. But I would be willing to bet money that it’s really the fault of—”

Unwittingly, Alice’s voice interrupts. “I bet it’s the Blossoms. They probably pulled their annual holiday gift to the town beautification fund and this is how much this sorry place depends on their patronage. _Ugh,_ it makes me sick.”

Betty can’t help laughing at the look of self-satisfaction on Jughead’s face at his correct prediction. “Betty?” Alice trills. “Are you listening?”

She shoots Jughead a look— _stop making me laugh—_ even though at this point he’s just making pompous facial expressions, and unmutes the phone. “Yes, mom, and I am not sure I have anything to contribute.”

Alice sighs. A master of interpreting her mother’s exhalations, Betty knows this one is wearied, disappointed. “Dinner was nothing to miss, dear. Polly isn’t much of a cook, despite her fancy chef’s kitchen. They may be able to afford top of the line appliances, but she doesn’t know how to roast a turkey that isn’t bone dry. And that Jason—god, what a _bore.”_

Betty mutes again. Jughead chomps on his crust. “Oh Betty!” he mimics. “If only you would move home and have a humbler kitchen but more delicious meal prepared for us! I wouldn’t even mind if you had a less rich husband as long as he’s not in some kind of financial consulting that makes him not only evil capitalist scum, but also _kind of boring.”_

He’s doing this to cheer her up, but never ceases to make her more confident in her choices, more firm in her differences from her family, to hear him say things like this. In the face of being so imperfectly known by them, she is seen by him.

But her mom is calling for her attention again, so Betty breaks her warm gaze at her roommate. “I’ll be back, I should try to cut this short. Don’t eat my pizza.”

Jughead looks defensive, as if the request is absurd, even though he’s consumed her leftovers an (almost) unforgivable number of times in the last few months. Betty backs out of the kitchen, narrowing her eyes, and turns the corner.

“Mom, boring sounds like a successful holiday for that group of people.” Betty slips into her bedroom and flops on the bed. Alice’s voice cracks in response, filling Betty with the inevitable dread. Things went worse than boring. “I’m—sweetheart, it’s been a brutal week.”

For all her mother’s antics, for all the times Betty wishes for an _under_ bearing parent, it still breaks her when Alice admits she’s upset. It’s been a long road since their session with Betty’s high school counselor, Ms. Burble, and every mental health professional either of them have ever seen since.

“Mom,” Betty coaxes. “What happened?”

Her mom muffles a sniff. “Your father is stealing Christmas.”

_Like the Grinch?_ The spirit of Jughead’s sarcasm fits in so seamlessly into her own thoughts. Not entirely wrong, Betty thinks. Her dad has been in constant battle with Alice during and after the divorce, retaliating for years of feeling smothered and silenced. The whole discourse exhausts Betty—she used to volley back and forth between her parents, the intermediary. Of course Alice was… herself. But her mom had agreed to go to therapy. Betty’s dad called it _quackery_ and pulled Betty off his health insurance at 20 years old. They haven’t been very close since then, to say the least.

“He’s moving in with her. _Penelope,”_ Alice seethes. 

_Oh, he can fuck right off._ “Jesus, mom, I’m so sorry. And I’m guessing he announced this at dinner?”

Alice heaves a sigh, and Betty’s fluency translates this one to _yes, that absolute rat bastard and his ghoulish girlfriend_. “Yes, right in the middle of the _most_ mediocre pumpkin pie known to man. _They_ will be hosting Christmas and although we are ‘all welcome,’ I would rather eat Polly’s chalky mashed potatoes for the rest of my life.”

God, Betty thinks. The food must have really sucked. 

“Now Polly’s going to choose him over me, because Jason already chose Penelope over Clifford in the divorce, and then those babies will only ever know that _poisonous_ part of the family…”

Betty cuts her off, mid-spiral. “No, she won’t, Mom. Sure, Polly’s obligated to the Blossoms, but she would never do that to you. _You_ can take dad’s stupid power moves personally but Polly isn’t doing anything to hurt you. It’s more complicated for her.”

Another broken record: defending her sister’s ambivalence in the mess. Granted, Polly could do more to remind their mom that she _does_ in fact (probably) give a shit, but it’s fine. They all accept their roles within the strain of the family chaos, and Polly’s is producing grandchildren so that the torch isn’t held under Betty’s feet. She’ll take it.

“I just… we have Christmas traditions, you know? Decorating the tree and homemade pizzas and Christmas brunch. And I want Dag and Junie to have that, too. With _us.”_ Alice is swiftly veering into pouty territory, and Betty knows it’s time to jump into fixer mode. Fixing is Betty’s gift and curse, from mediating the film choice for family movie night, to cajoling everyone into vacation activities with at least half a smile on their faces. 

“Mom,” Betty interrupts the next string of catastrophizing, thinking quickly. “Listen. How about you get out of Riverdale for Christmas weekend? Come to New York, stay in Veronica’s loft with me!” She’s laying it on thick now, hyping up her tone to cheerful and warm. It’s a long shot, sure, but it will get Betty out of a marathon of suffering at the Blossoms. Besides, Jug will be at the Andrews’ again, and she’s not sure she can face another holiday alone. “We can go shopping, have a nice dinner, see Rockefeller Center… and we can squeeze in some traditions here, too. Cookies, Christmas brunch by the tree… I’ll make it nice.”

Her mom’s voice cracks again. “That… would actually be really nice, honey. I’ve never had a Christmas in New York City.”

Betty heart twists with guilt and genuine love—her mother is annoying, but she’s come a long way. Alice of ten years ago would pitch a fit, demanding they all choose sides, guilting Polly and the twins with gifts and elaborate plans to lure her daughters home—all the things that only served to repel them away. It’s not perfect by far, but it’s sometimes kind of _good,_ even.

(Even so, Betty’s already making a mental list of preparations sure to make the hectic nature of December next to unbearable.)

“I love you, Mom. I’ll be in touch soon, okay?”

  
  
  


By the time Betty emerges from her bedroom, Jughead has transitioned to the couch in the living room, hunched over his laptop, typing with his noise cancelling earphones on. One of the pizzas is mostly gone, but the unopened box is still warm—and it’s pepperoni, her favorite, even though she didn’t get any input in the order. She takes out a plate and drops two giant slices onto it before flopping down onto the other end of the couch. 

Betty’s halfway through the first piece when Jughead slides the headphones off. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Huh?” she responds, mouth full.

“You’re rage chewing. I can hear it through these,” he jokes.

It’s silent for a few more beats. Betty feels guilty for immediately launching into her family crap. She never even got to say _Hi, how was your trip?_

“We don’t have to get into it—the short version is that my dad is being a dick and intentionally alienating my mom on Christmas, so naturally I fixed it by inviting her and a world of woe to New York for Christmas. So, I’m just… already stressed out.” God, she needs this pizza to give her superhuman powers to get through the next three weeks.

“So she’s coming? Here? For Christmas?”

There is a weird, high pitch to his voice. “Oh, shit, um, yes. If that’s okay? Just the weekend. She would probably leave later in the day on the 25th. The paper is more of a one woman operation than ever, so I doubt she can leave for very long.”

Jughead looks uncharacteristically pained. “But, um, it won’t be weird if I’m here?” He must sense the confusion blooming in her brain. “Because Archie is going to Veronica’s family for Christmas. Asking the big man’s blessing and all that good old patriarchal stuff. Anyway, I was… just gonna solo it here.”

Of course, she thinks. Nothing is ever fixed so easily. “Shit. _Shit._ I mean, sorry—this is my fault. I just assumed… _shit._ My mom doesn’t exactly know that I live with a boy.”

She’s never felt more like she’s in middle school than calling Jughead a _boy._ Describing him as a _boy_ sounds childish, as if she has a dumb adolescent crush. For all her immature inability to communicate her feelings, Betty flushes, her crush is certainly quite _adult_ if her occasional sex dream is anything to go by. 

Perceiving things much more maturely, Jughead asks, a little surprised, “She actually cares about that?”

Betty sighs. “She was a child bride, basically. Married my dad right out of high school and was delighted when my sister was of the ring-by-spring tribe in college, too. Well, at least until my dad screwed his way into the in-laws. Anyway, it’s one of her more conservative impulses. I doubt she expects that I’m—” Betty stops short of saying _a virgin_ out of pure mortification. 

Jughead seems to sense what she means anyway, clearing his throat and redirecting. “So probably not the best, low stress time to break that particular news.”

Betty closes her eyes, annoyed at herself for not just taking a second to think, to ask him, to prevent this snowballing problem. Yet again, she is determined to be the fixer.

“You know what, I’ll just stay at a hotel with my mom! It will be nice, I’ll make it a big, special thing. She’ll love it.”

Jughead scoffs. “You don’t have money for that, Betts. And we already live in this huge ridiculous place, which your mom will want to _see_ at some point. No, I’ll go somewhere else.”

Betty sets her plate down and sits up, devoting her full body to the argument. “You are _not_ spending Christmas somewhere random and alone! I don’t care how much of a Scrooge you try to convince me you naturally are. I can’t condemn you to that.”

His shoulders drop a little, and Betty feels a soft ache in her heart to see that he would have done it, if she’d asked. It is more than a small miracle that he’s entertaining how to solve her completely solvable problem. _Just tell Alice that you live with a man. One you are not sleeping with. Which she might actually hate more than if you were, seeing as it points to all her fears of you dying alone._

That’s when she gets a positively bonkers idea.

It’s Veronica levels of unhinged, really.

Far more logical solutions exist. The hotel. Calling her mother back _right now_ and suggesting a trip outside of the city. Jughead would probably not even mind living as a ghost in his own home, having Betty sneak cookies into his room behind a locked door.

But maybe it’s Betty’s last ridiculous attempt to get Jughead to admit, or discover, or fuel any iota of romantic feeling he might have for her.

“Betts,” Jughead breaks through her internal debate. “What are you thinking right now? You look like you’re in pain.”

Her jaw is clenched extra hard, her fingers balled into fists. She takes a deep breath, relaxing and rolling her shoulders back. “I have an utterly wild, out of the box plan.”

“I can handle wild,” he says, gesturing _out with it._

Betty gnaws on her tongue, her stomach churning when she thinks about actually voicing the idea. “It would only be for like, 36 hours,” she caveats.

“Betty, just spill.” He’s moved his laptop to the coffee table, giving her his full attention. Betty starts twisting her fingers in the fringe of a throw blanket, then snatches them back, folding her hands like she’s been scolded in Sunday school.

“So, you can’t be my roommate because my mom will be totally weird about it and make unbearable commentary about me being single. But I refuse to kick you out of your home on Christmas.”

Something in his face softens, and Betty’s chest throbs at the thought that Jughead has so rarely had a sense of ‘home on Christmas.’ The intensity doubles when she realizes that she would do anything to be that home for him.

“I’m asking, Jughead, will you pretend to be my boyfriend for Christmas?” 

  
  
  


The proposal is mostly forgotten for the next couple weeks. Betty stays late at school most nights, but Jughead finally decides to learn how to use her fancy pressure cooker, which is excellent not only because he can easily make dinner with plenty of servings, but also because it leads to excellent Jughead hype-rants, some of her rare favorites. “This thing is magic. Honestly, if someone used this as an argument for the benefits of the free market, I would have no retort. Marx didn’t prepare me for this, Betts. I’m also not sure Marx ever had a broccoli cheese soup, because holy, holy fuck. If we lived millenia ago I would build an altar and worship this thing.”

Then, the massive boxes arrive with a voicemail from her mother. “Betty!” Alice chimes. “I’ve had some of our ornaments and decor packaged and sent to you—I’m sure Veronica’s apartment could use some holiday cheer and it will make us feel like we’re at home. See you soon, honey.”

It’s a sweet gesture, but now, on top of everything, there is a Christmas tree to acquire, lights to string, the whole works. 

“Jesus,” Jughead swears when she drags the tubs into the living room. “She has no chill.”

Betty sighs. “Where am I going to get a tree?”

Jughead stops typing, looking up from his stool at the kitchen island. “Oh, Trey asked me if we wanted the usual Lodge Christmas services. If I’m being honest, I told him that idea scared the shit outta me, but I’m sure he’ll be up here with a dozen wreaths if you ask.”

Betty shouldn’t be surprised; she forgets all the time that she lives in this building with a staff she could be burdening. Jughead, of course, has a much more extreme complex about it all, which he justifies by befriending all the doormen. Sometimes she sends him down to the lobby to get their food delivery and he’s given away her crab rangoon to Trey or Manuel. Betty makes a mental note to ask Veronica about the Christmas gifts for the staff. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll take a tree delivery,” she concedes. Not for the first time, Betty’s stomach swoops when she considers broaching the next matter of preparation. “Beyond decoration, we do have to, like…”

Jughead ducks his head, nodding. “Right. Hide all evidence of my existence.”

They haven’t really gotten much further on their whole fake-relationship plot than Jughead’s somewhat shell-shocked and slightly stammering agreement. “Well maybe I have her sleep in my room. Then you can sleep in your room and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

He slow blinks at her. “Betty. If we’re gonna try to sell this to your mom, you’re gonna have to stick it to her a little more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that your mom is a journalist, on top of being nosy as hell. She’s going to want to know how long we’ve been dating. She’s going to go through your drawers to see if I keep any clothes here. And frankly, if she really thinks we don’t ever sleep in the same bed, she’s going to look for holes in the rest of our um… relationship.”

Betty sighs. He’s right, and it’s is why she’s going to be in emotional ribbons by the end of this. “Okay. So we make you a drawer of clothes. Leave some of your stuff out in the bathroom. That will make her buy that you often sleep over.”

“All the furniture in the other bedroom is technically still Veronica’s, so if it’s clean, it probably won’t even look like anything except a guest room. Do you think she’d poke around in there?”

Betty shakes her head. “No, especially not if we don’t give her any reason to doubt it. Us, I mean.” Her whole body feels on fire, realizing this means she’s going to have to touch Jughead a _lot_ . “So we’ll hide your stuff and sleep in my room?” Oh my god, she’s going to sleep in the same bed as him. _Twice._

Before she can broach that particular conversation of boundary setting, Jughead is already distracted by his phone. “Oh, damn, Manuel says they already have a tree ready for us. Seriously, what _is_ this place?”

  
  


Jughead tilts his head, holding an ornament from the box in one hand and a mug of hot cocoa in the other. “Wow, little Betty is _very_ serious in this photo.” It’s a ceramic Santa with a photo window, and she knows the one. Betty rolls her eyes. “I was so ticked off at Polly because she insisted on wearing blue so I had to wear pink in those photos.”

Jughead nods, faux-somber. “Do you have any with ridiculous Christmas sweaters? That seems WASPy.”

Betty chuckles, gesturing for him to help her with the lights. “No, actually those are _not_ WASPy at all and definitely considered _tacky_ by Alice Cooper.”

Tutting, Jughead helps her untangle. “Figures.”

Betty plugs the first strand in. “Alright, start at the bottom and we’ll wind upwards.” 

“Me?” Jughead cringes. “Betts, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m more of a snacks manager.” He gestures to the bodega spread of hot cocoa packets, cheap eggnog spiked with Lodge rum, and candy canes. “But if you style, I can hold the strand. You know, provide art direction.” He punctuates this by sipping from an enormous elf novelty mug unearthed from the decor tubs. Her heart feels like one of the marshmallows in the cocoa, melting slowly.

He’s right—Betty has a much better instinct for the proper density of lights required to deck the tree. Jughead is like a child with the ornaments, commenting derisively on the ugly ceramic angels but boldly highlighting her childhood artwork of popsicle stick and pipe cleaner nativity scenes. It’s endearing, she thinks, knowing that he’s never done a lot of these things purely for himself. Betty doesn’t draw attention to the deficits of Jughead’s upbringing, but it doesn’t stop her from feeling a little emotional when she sees him fulfilling those things in adulthood. His first freelance photography check is saved in his bedside table with his diploma. Betty wonders if he keeps them tucked away because no one will ever understand what they mean to him, not like her degree, which is displayed by her mother in an array with Polly’s and Alice’s own. 

When they finish, Betty sinks back into the couch, feeling a little bit of the magic aura of the lights (and the rum in the eggnog) sinking in. “I should probably send her a picture,” she thinks aloud.

Jughead plops down beside her, but Betty waves him up again. “Go pose by the tree. I need to formally introduce you to my mother so she doesn’t have an aneurysm in the doorway.”

He poses stiltedly. “God, just relax. Right now you look _exactly_ like a fake boyfriend.” Jughead’s nervous smile blooms across his face and he backs up just so, making the lights glow across his face. Betty snaps the picture and taps out a message. **_I have someone for you to meet._ **

Rejoining her on the couch, Jughead sighs. “Okay, all of this is kind of nice. Especially since it gets dark at four o’clock and if I’m editing at home it’s really, really sad in here.”

Lifting her glass to a toast, Betty says, “To being a lot less sad and definitely less alone.”

After he drains his (fourth?) mug of cocoa, Jughead scoots over, lifting her legs up and sliding under them, letting them drape across his lap. He must notice the tension that stiffens her entire body, because he smirks and clucks his tongue. “Come on, Betts. It’s just practice.”

They watch another documentary. Betty wonders if it’s _practice_ when his thumb draws circles on her kneecap for the entire second half. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas goo ahead, much stupidity, all the love. I edited this while drinking a too-strong margarita, so, all errors are mine/tequila's. Enjoy <3 <3

There is one more day of school before break, so Betty and her four periods of English 10 will spend ninety percent of it watching the Winter Show, most of the audience oblivious to the bickering ballerinas. Then, she will participate in the time honored tradition of coming home, drinking in front of some form of corporate holiday garbage (god, Jughead, again, in her brain), and falling asleep by ten. In preparation, Betty goes to the grocery store and purchases a battlement of alcohol.

While she’s unloading the bags that Trey, one of the doormen, insisted upon carrying up for her, Jughead peers over her shoulder, no doubt looking for snacks.

“Wow, does your mom drink a lot? I wouldn’t peg her as that type,” he muses.

Betty, ever sensitive to Jughead’s radar when it comes to drinking (even though he drinks a little, socially), cringes with guilt. “Yes, but only top shelf vodka or a good white wine. I, however, usually find myself wanting a drink _very_ badly by mid afternoon when I can’t escape her.”

Jughead snorts. “Fair enough. What did you get for me?” 

Betty rolls her eyes at his petulant whine and withdraws a box of chocolate orange truffles. “If I don’t go through all this gin in one go, you need to equally pace your sugar content.”

Pouting for a moment, Jughead then draws suddenly close, pecking a kiss on her forehead. “You’re so very thoughtful, darling,” he teases, his face still dipped low towards hers

Betty’s face feels like a giant, flaming balloon, and he’s still close enough that she worries he’ll literally feel her cheeks radiating like a furnace. She doesn’t overreact—every time she has flinched or balked at some form of affection in the past week, he’ll roll his eyes and give the same excuse. _Practice._

Still, he’s never gotten his lips involved. Betty thinks she might need to go lie down. This ruse is already testing the limits of her acting ability, and they haven’t even begun in earnest.

But she’s a big girl, so she clears her throat, trying to appear unaffected. _Just have fun,_ she reminds herself. “Do we really want to go with _darling?”_ She wrinkles her nose.

Jughead smiles and shrugs. “It seems like something your mom would find charming. _Classic.”_ He starts rambling in his Jimmy Stewart voice and Betty feels a familiar glow in her chest. “But if it’s all the same, I’d prefer you call me ‘sugar,’ which is not only cute, but an accurate composition of my body.”

Groaning to suppress outright laughter, Betty elbows him in the stomach as he encroaches on her again from behind, reaching for the jumbo bag of tortilla chips. He retaliates, pinning her up against the counter and holding her arms down in an ironclad grip she didn’t know him capable of—she feels a lick of heat travel to her belly. 

This vantage, held up against the kitchen island, reminds Betty vividly of a dream she had last month about a _very_ similar scenario, only they were much more naked. Dream-Jughead’s lips trailed hotly down the back of her neck before sliding his long index finger into her—

There is a knock. No doubt beet red, Betty startles, and Jughead lets go. “I’ll get it,” she calls while half-running to the door, her heart thundering. There is limited relief when the peephole reveals Veronica, arms laden with gift bags, ready to swan into her former abode.

After ten years, Betty and Veronica do not pretend to keep secrets from the other. (Unless that secret is the ten thousand dollar ring hidden in the back of the kitchen towel drawer. Jughead thought this was a weird choice, but Betty reasoned that Veronica would have no reason to search the kitchen and all too many possible excuses to dig through their underwear drawers.)

As such, Veronica has been thoroughly briefed on the plan, if a panic text after the knee circles counts as thorough. **_This is a recipe for delicious idiocy_ ** was Veronica’s first response. **_What are the odds you two finally bang before your mom even arrives?_ **

None of this really made Betty feel any more confident, but it did make her laugh. For the past decade, Veronica has been Betty’s persistent reminder to worry less, enjoy more. Still, she is wary of a surprise visit.

“Well well well, how are my favorite faux beaus?” Veronica sings out, dropping her bags on the bench by the door and pulling Betty into a hug. 

Betty looks over her shoulder to catch Jughead’s eyeroll and shoulder flinch. She can practically read his mind, the eyebrow furrow that says _you told her?_ Betty shrugs back, _of course I did._

“The decor is very sweet!” her best friend announces as she paces around the main room, examining the tree. “I’ve come bearing gifts—” Veronica deposits two gold wrapped packages at the base of the tree. 

Jughead and Betty stand beside each other, playing the part of Veronica’s audience as she studies the tree trimmings. His increased physical closeness in the past couple weeks has made Betty crave touch in a new, intense way. Right now, she longs to wind her arms around his chest, or feel him tuck her head beneath his chin. 

Jughead opens his mouth, no doubt to protest the gifts, but Betty gives micro-shake of the head. She knows there is no point in refusing the ostentatious generosity of Veronica Lodge. 

“And of course, I need to hear _everything_ about how this delicious plot is going to go down. Have you come up with your story yet?” Veronica draws near to them, eyes flitting back in forth in a way that has Betty reluctantly leaning away from Jug.

“Um, you know, we were friends and then, uh, we recently started dating.” Betty wrings her hands, bracing for the cluck of Veronica’s tongue. They have narrowed down a few details, but it’s fine to pretend with Jughead. It’s much stranger to perform for Veronica.

But clearly, a performance is what Veronica wants. Scoffing, Veronica narrows on Jughead, who responds by standing even taller, as if his imposing height to her slightness could possibly intimidate a Lodge. In a voice of eerie similarity to Alice Cooper, Veronica asks, “Jug-head, how did you meet my darling Elizabeth?”

Narrowing his eyes with slight contempt, but otherwise betraying no ill will in his voice, Jughead answers seamlessly. “Betty and I met through Archie and Veronica. We’ve been friends for years, and even though I always wanted to be more…” his eyes meet hers for a second, and she swears she sees them open wider, more earnestly, for a second before moving back to Veronica— _damn_ he’s a way better actor than she is. “It took me a while to finally get up the courage to do anything about it. I guess, Mrs. Cooper,” he pauses, chuckling _so_ convincingly in the spirit of a bashful boyfriend putting on airs. “It’s been a long time coming.”

Veronica, eyes bright with devilish satisfaction, clicks her tongue in a far more approving manner. “Not bad, Jones.”

Betty nods, eager to assure him that she _is_ extremely grateful for (and impressed by) his act. “You’re a way better liar than me.”

For some reason, Jughead blinks at her a little quizzically, but Betty doesn’t have time to parse this look before Veronica steamrolls ahead. “Oh! One other _gift_ I suppose, to help your little decoy plot.” Rummaging in her bag, Veronica pulls out two boxes. The fact that it takes a full five seconds for her to register just _what_ Veronica has in each hand says a lot about Betty’s sex life.

Grinning deviantly, Veronica holds out two boxes of condoms. “Well, Jughead? Regular or magnum? I mean—I’m pretty sure that’s just a branding thing, but I thought I would let you guys choose.”

The sound that catches in Jughead’s throat sounds like something in between a laugh and a yelp. “Jesus, Veronica.” Betty cannot breathe or speak or do anything but imagine herself bursting into literal flames.

Shrugging, her best friend barrels on. “Come on, you _know_ Alice is a snoop, and I happen to know you might be in need since neither of you are getting any action—outside this fake arrangement or whatever.”

Betty sputters, “Well, I’m on birth control!”

Her friends meet her with the same confused stare. Betty realizes her fumble. “Right. I mean. I know we’re not _using_ them… God, okay.” Reaching out and snatching one of the boxes, Betty tears it open and marches into her bedroom, tucking it just underneath one side of the bed, but still in semi-plain view. She marches back, trying not to wring her hands. “Alright V, happy? Had your fun?” Betty tries to smile through her exasperation.

“Great, I’ll keep this one for the holidays,” Veronica winks, tucking the box back into her bag. Jughead groans, Betty grimaces, and everything feels aright once more. 

  
  


In truth, most of the backstory about her ‘relationship’ with Jughead is relayed via text. This, of course, is preferable since they can co-construct the story and stay on the same page. When Alice asks **_Does this young man live with you?_** Betty shoves her phone under Jughead’s nose and says, “See?”

He just sighs. “You can hear her tone.”

“She is gifted in that way.” Betty types out their pre-determined reply: **_No, but he’ll be spending the holiday with us. I’m so excited for you to meet him._ **

This is mostly true; however judgemental Alice can be, it would be comforting for her mother to approve of Betty dating someone like Jughead. There is some hope in the matter: Betty long thought Alice would push her to marry someone like Jason—rich, boring, and prone to pose the most milquetoast of opinions about anything under the sun. But now Alice can hardly stand Jason, and Betty has a shred of hope that she might entertain the anti-Jason.

“Betty,” Jughead says, interrupting her train of thought. It’s serious, an I-want-to-ask-a-big-favor serious. “I just wanted to say, with this whole thing… It’s up to you how all of this plays out. You can call quits or say no on any part of it.”

Betty swallows, wondering if this is about Veronica’s stunt with the condoms, and says as much.

“No, I… I know she was giving you crap for being a bad actor or liar or whatever and… I don’t mind being your cover. I’ll jump in and hold your hand or—” he swallows, like his throat got too dry to continue listing types of physical affection. Betty hopes it’s not because he’s repulsed, though considering his track record lately, that seems unlikely. A pleasant flutter ripples through her at the thought.

“But I’ll only do it if you want. And only to whatever point that’s okay with you.”

Betty’s stomach drops, realizing that he’s essentially asking her— 

“You mean… should we kiss?”

Finally, it’s his turn to flush pink. “I—uh, yeah, maybe. I mean, not maybe we should, just maybe we need to talk about boundaries, or whatever. It’s—I’m—”

Maybe it’s the fact that she’s felt so swept away with all the unexpected gestures—trailing circles on her knee, a more frequent shoulder bump. The hand hold on the subway on Wednesday, and the forehead kiss, for god’s sake. But his sudden deferral does make her feel more comfortable, confident. “Well, in a real relationship, I’m not exactly prone to excessive PDA.”

Jughead nods in zealous agreement. “Neither of us are Archie or Veronica.”

Smiling, and yet more relaxed, Betty adds, “But. We don’t want to give my mom any suspicions. So if there is… a moment. Like, she’s nearby, not watching exactly, but present... if the time was right.” God, she sounds like she’s asking him to live act a Hallmark movie. _A moment. Get a grip._ “Then… it would be okay with me, if you kissed me. If it’s okay with you. I mean, if any of that makes sense.”

Betty needs to bottle this sudden calm she feels. Jughead looks pensive, but not unhappy. “Okay. Yeah, I mean, yes. That makes sense.”

  
  
  


The first days of winter break, leading up to Christmas, Betty lives in a state of total bliss. She finishes three books started at the end of summer. Most days she wakes up, her body still adjusted to her 6am alarm, and parks on the couch and falls asleep again within minutes. Jughead makes her coffee when she wakes again, and calls this routine ‘Hibernation Betty.’ 

“She wakes and then promptly naps, recovering and then storing her energies for the new year in the form of blanket burritos, Getflix marathons, and sugar cookies. This species of Betty hibernates without care to the fact that those around her are still hustling to prep for the winter feasts,” Jughead narrates. Betty throws a pair of socks at him. 

A few days in, finally developing the energy for apartment prep, she clears out her drawers full of sweaters and packs them into one of Veronica’s empty moving boxes which are piled in now-Jughead’s room. Later that day, Jughead does some back and forth with boxes of his own, emptying the guest bedroom of any sign of living there. It says a lot that this is possible in the span of one evening; Jughead has not yet settled into this place, knowing it was temporary.

The results are one neatly packed drawer of his clothes. Betty wonders if they are the kind of fake couple moving towards two drawers. Maybe it’s because it’s almost Christmas, when the world seems to slow, to take on a hopeful glow. There is a new daydreaming possibility that when her mother waves goodbye and drives off, Betty turns to Jughead and tells him that it’s been nice to be his girlfriend, to ask if it would be crazy to try dating each other.

  
  
  


Predictably, the morning of Christmas Eve, when Alice calls to announce her imminent arrival, Betty enters an unattractive tailspin that involves reciting the agenda over and over again. She feels like she’s student-teaching again, knowing she can’t perfectly prepare and yet desperately running through the moves, the questions, the key beats of the lesson. 

Jughead calmly parrots her words back. “You’re taking her shopping and to Rockefeller. I’ll meet you for dinner, and Alice can’t complain because you already made reservations but we won’t hype up the food in case she whines about it being a let down. We’ll come back, bake cookies, and I will try not to eat all of them so that your mom doesn’t suggest I get any tests done on my cholesterol levels.”

“You’re embellishing. And you don’t have to meet us for dinner if you don’t want to—“

“Hey. Don’t take a free fancy dinner away from me. This is the Christmas of Jubilee, the wealth redistribution that will not come for another seven years!”

Betty shakes her head, squashing a smile. “Don’t think you’re cute for making socialist Deuteronomy references.”

“It’s actually from Leviticus, and I don’t think I’m cute, but I need you to think I’m very, _very_ cute or else your mom is going to smell blood in the water.” With that, he takes her hand, intertwining their fingers. Betty’s throat feels immediately dry. He’s wearing a green sweater over navy and goldenrod windowpane plaid, and his slouchy suspenders. Sure, his aesthetic most closely resembles the old men who play chess in the park, but Betty happens to find this very, very cute indeed. 

“You are. Cute, I mean,” Betty bites her lip and wills her palms not to sweat. She can flirt, in fact she _needs_ to flirt. 

Jughead blushes, but rolls his eyes. “Adequate acting, I suppose. But I guess it’s just your mom we need to convince, not me.”

The intercom buzzes. “I’ve got Mrs. Cooper, Miss Betty. Shall I send her up?”

Jughead tugs her to the speaker. “Thank you, Manuel. Let her know we’ll meet her at the elevator.”

Standing outside the door, Betty tugs her skirt with her free hand. Her palms are definitely sweating now, but Jughead doesn’t comment. Instead, he squeezes it tight for a beat and lifts it to his mouth and plants a kiss on her knuckles. 

Betty’s stomach does an entire gymnastic tumbling routine. “Jug,” she starts, throat tight. “I’m nervous. And if I freak out, I give you permission to do whatever it takes.”

Jughead steps in front of her, very close. Their eyes meet, and Betty feels both electrified and soothed. He tucks some hair behind her ear. “So, Archie and Veronica?”

Betty gulps. “Within reason.”

The elevator dings, sending Jughead turning back around in such a way that, from Alice’s vantage point, it probably looks like they’d been kissing.

“Mom! Hi!” Betty retracts her hand rapidly, like she’s been caught. _Literally the opposite of the act, you idiot._

“Hi sweetheart,” Alice clips, cheery enough. She’s wearing a new trench coat, and her blowout looks fresh. Betty swallows a laugh that bubbles up at the memory of Veronica’s test: **_The upside of Jughead meeting your mom is that he’ll have proof of how hot you’ll still be in thirty years._ **

Despite the fact that she’s only staying one night, holiday or not, Alice clutches two rolling bags and a large purse. She drops them all to fold Betty into a hug. Betty inhales her perfume, somehow cloying and comforting at the same time. “You look a little more well-rested than our last video chat. Less dark circles. Did you start using that eye cream I sent? I know it’s totally an old lady brand but it’s a miracle worker. And the woman at the makeup counter who recommended it was your age!”

Betty cuts her off by reaching for Jughead’s arm and dragging him beside her. It works—Alice completely shifts away from examining Betty’s wrinkles (well, _early stress evidence points_ her mother likes to say). “Well, you must be—”

Jughead offers a hand before Alice can butcher his name. “Forsythe. But I go by Jughead. It’s really nice to meet you, Mrs—” Jughead’s eyes widen, which Betty instantly knows is panic about her mother’s 

divorcee title.

Mirroring Jughead’s move with the name save, her mom clarifies, “Cooper. Still wanted the same name as my girls.”

He directs the shake with a still slightly panicked smile and then moves to collect her bags. Betty remembers it’s always her job to have the keys, even though she likes to think that they’ve reached the stage of their fake relationship where he probably has keys. Drawer or keys? Which comes first? 

Alice blinks with surprise. “Oh, thank you. Jughead.” She tests it out and seems to accept the strangeness of the name. 

As anticipated, Alice spends the next fifteen minutes convulsing over the apartment. “Do you have the name of Veronica’s decorator? I mean, not that I could afford them, but maybe I’ll follow them on Instant-Gram. I’m desperate to redo the house. I was so concerned for so long with keeping the house _masculine_ enough, but now, frankly, I’m extremely over _that_ bullshit. Sorry, Jughead.”

She maintains this monologue while opening up Betty’s cupboards and studying the glassware with a far less appraising eye. Betty has a feeling she’s going to open a box of expensive stemware on Christmas morning. 

Jughead shrugs. “The fact that you felt the burden of decorating your home without input from your husband and yet catering to his wishes is the real problem, Mrs. C. I mean, the societal problem. That’s a ridiculous nonsense gendered expectation.”

He’s already got a hand in the chocolate orange truffles box, which Betty sighs silently at, but Alice’s eyebrows perk up, intrigued. Like she’s narrowing in on a scoop.

“Precisely,” she oozes, pleased. _Praise be the anti-Jason,_ Betty thinks, beaming at Jughead. “Elizabeth, are you going to give me a tour, or are you expecting this _man_ to do all the talking for you?”

Jughead is barely suppressing an outburst of laughter at the sudden team Alice seems to have built with him. God, he’s going to be beyond insufferable about what a good fake boyfriend he is. 

Betty leads her mom down to Jughead’s de-Jugheaded room. “This is the guest room. Well, Veronica’s old room, hence a lot of those boxes. Sorry about that. I did the best I could to—”

“This will do just fine, Betty. Pray tell, where will your young man sleep, though? That sofa looks mighty luxurious but hardly like a pull out.” Alice rattles this off innocently.

Even though she’s been preparing for this exact moment, Betty finds herself tongue-tied under the gaze of the dragon.

“I’ll be honest,” Jughead jumps in, leaning on the doorframe. “The sofa is comfortable, and I’ve been tempted before on particularly cold nights; she’s a massive blanket hog. And sometimes your daughter _kicks_ in her sleep _,_ if you would believe it. Like, _hard._ But then again, the other option is my cold, lonely bed all the way in the East Village. _And_ she puts up with my snoring, so I can’t complain.”

Alice blinks, stunned. Betty’s not sure she’s ever met someone who could silence Alice Cooper. Betty considers asking him to marry her on the spot, to hell with nonsense gendered expectations. 

Her mom wears the same look on her face as she did while saying Jughead’s name for the first time, and Betty realizes that this is the tell that Alice is using some kind of therapy technique. Annoying as her triggers might be, Betty has to be a little endeared to that. 

Alice excuses herself to unload the gift suitcase, Betty steps close to Jughead. “You don’t actually snore do you?”

“How would I know? Do you kick people in their sleep?”

Betty narrows her eyes. “That sounds crazy.”

He shrugs. “Your sheets are always untucked even though you’re weird and make your bed every morning. You must be a thrasher.”

_“Why_ are you paying attention to my _sheets?”_ Betty groans. 

“So that I can save you from having a fight about your boyfriend sleeping in your room.”

As if Betty needed the reminder that she was somehow supposed to cozy up in her full size bed with Jughead tonight and get a single wink of sleep. 

  
  
  
  


Betty and Alice part ways from Jughead in the lobby. “We’ll meet back here before dinner? It’s at 6:30 and this place isn’t _fancy_ but—” 

“No plaid,” he rolls his eyes. “Tier two of the Lodgian dress code, I got it.” Betty starts to walk away when Jug catches her hand and pulls her into a close hug. “See you later,” he says, smiles and leans down to press a kiss to her cheek. For once, he’s flushed and nervous. It is definitely different with an audience—especially considering Manuel is still at the desk and will _definitely_ ask her something thinly veiled about it later. 

But Betty doesn’t have a hard time beaming back, or reaching an ungloved palm up to cup his face. “Bye, Juggie.”

She calls him this normally, yes, but as a _girlfriend_ it takes on a decidedly cute note.

An hour later, Betty follows Alice around the Nordstrom on 57th, trying to keep up. As usual, Alice is giving running commentary on how much she loves shopping in New York. “I know you keep company with people of superior means and tastes—” (Alice has always been both overly critical and worshipful of Veronica Lodge) “But you have to understand what Riverdale has deteriorated to. If you can buy it in a Garnet Hill catalog, rest assured that half of the town owns it in three colors. I buy one full price designer cashmere and suddenly I’m besieged by the women at book club about where I shop and I’m realizing, all this gabbing about deals and steals is part of the problem. The outlet malls are a massacre of uniformity.” Betty’s not sure this metaphor makes any sense, but she just nods politely, practiced in enduring a lifetime of bits like this one. It’s when they’re winding inexplicably through the men’s store shoe department that her mother finally shifts into interview mode. 

“So, what are you buying for this boy who sleeps in your bed?”

Once more, Betty’s throat constricts into a giant knot, both at the hint of disapproval and the panic of realizing she hasn’t gotten him anything. _How_ did she forget this? Last year, she agonized over the prospect of giving Jughead a Christmas gift. Of course then, they didn’t live together, so there was the whole issue of managing to see him around Christmastime when their proximity was controlled by Veronica’s party throwing whims or dinner reservation making. Plus, there was the whole issue of reciprocity. Betty didn’t care a bit about getting in return for giving, but she did care about making an obvious lovesick fool of herself.

This year, she had been planning on it—something small, maybe a joke, but a gift nevertheless. The pretend boyfriend thing just set everything off course. And now she needs to find the gift she _would_ buy Jughead, if they were really together. _And_ she needs to remind Jughead, too. Betty considers making a fake gift to herself from Jughead by wrapping up a sweater she owns that her mother has never seen.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Alice singsongs. “But I’ll find out soon. What’s his shoe size?”

Finally, a question she can answer. “Eleven and a half.”

Her mother plucks the model of a camel leather shoe off the display and marches in the direction of a salesperson. Normally, Betty would tail along to make sure Alice doesn’t threaten an underpaid sales associate on Christmas Eve should they not have the right size in stock. But now is her only chance to find and buy something for Jughead without her mother immediately sniffing out the last minute nature of her purchase. 

Betty rapidly messages Veronica. **_SOS, need gift for jug!!!_ **

The universe loves her today, because Veronica’s three blinking dots pop up right away. **_You idiots. I have to do everything for you. What’s your price range? What would you get him if you weren’t worried what he would read into it?_ **

Scowling, Bettty marches away from the shoe department. If her mom has to wander or call to find her, she can buy more time. **_I bought all my other gifts in November, like usual, so I guess I could swing a splurge. Maybe a new camera bag? His is falling apart._ **

She stumbles into the luggage department just as Veronica replies. **_JB got him one. Also, not really an I-love-you gift._ **

Betty rolls her eyes. **_How on earth do you know that?_ **Maybe she doesn’t want to know.

**_We text. Archie hinted a few months ago that he wants her in the wedding (what a cutie!!) so I figured we should start getting acquainted._ **

Only Veronica. Betty’s rubs her sweating hands on her skirt. She needs the exact thing to appear—a perfect balance of practical and sentimental. Something he’ll make use of but still conveys a message that Alice will read and accept. 

Her texts keep buzzing. **_Oh god, you’re in a department store? There’s nothing for Jug in a department store. Unless the jewelry counter has something totally ridiculous like a pocket watch._ **

Veronica is right, this is fruitless. Jughead is not someone who wears cologne or fancy menswear or—

Then it hits her—practical, but romantic. **_Are you with Archie? I need their suit guy’s number._ **

Ten minutes later, Betty is flagging down a menswear sales associate with her brightest and most apologetic smile. “Hi, I’m wondering if any of your sample sizes might be close to these dimensions?” She thrusts the scrap of paper bearing Jughead’s measurements, copied from a sweet-voiced old tailor named Esias—Archie and Jughead’s suit rental guy. 

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. I’ll come back to get it tailored, I just need this for tomorrow. For Christmas. For my boyfriend.” Why she says this to the sales associate—Fabian, according to the nametag—is unclear. Maybe it was easy to keep lying after the fib about coming back to tailor it; the only way Esias would give her Jughead’s measurements was that she swore up and down they would come to him for the adjustments. _Sweetheart, you’re stealing one of my regulars,_ he’d chimed, but Betty just grinned, thinking about what adorable kindred spirits Jug and Esias probably are.

Fabian takes the list with a _no problem, miss,_ and starts searching. As her heart rate finally slows, Betty thinks about the last thing Esias said. _Buying him a suit, huh? Are you that blonde girl he’s sweet on?_ Her heart had about exploded at the thought. _I mean, he never said as much, but he’s got that picture of you._

Jughead does have a photo of them on his phone background. It’s not cutesy or anything—Archie and Veronica are in the photo, too. Though, she supposes, if you didn’t know better it might look like two couples. 

Fabian calls her over. “We’ve got one that’s probably as close to a perfect fit as possible, in taupe linen. There’s one a bit further off—it’s a dark blue, Italian wool, but it’s thirty percent off.” 

The blue is beautiful, and more work for Esias to fuss over. “The blue is perfect.”

Betty meets her mom in the lobby. “Well, what’s in the bag?” Alice prompts.

She winds her arm through her mother’s, in a much better mood now that she’s solved her problem. “You’ll find out.”

  
  
  


They have their bags held at the front desk before heading south to Rockefeller Plaza. Usually, Betty steers clear of tourist magnets like this during the holidays. They’re fine—just overpriced and overhyped, even if there is some cinematic element to the giant tree. 

“Is Jug-head joining us?” Alice asks, more eagerly than Betty would expect.

“No, he’ll meet us for dinner.”

“What’s he doing now?”

Betty furrows her brow. “I don’t know. Work stuff, maybe?”

“On Christmas Eve?” Alice gives a skeptic huff. “Maybe a big present surprise?”

Betty wants to laugh at how much she doubts that. Commercial pressure to buy gifts is hardly Jughead’s MO. Again, why she’ll be wrapping up a sweater. Maybe the orange one? Betty wants to check her social media to make sure it won’t be something her mother has seen.

“He’s a photographer, so he might be picking up prints before things slow down for the rest of the year. He tends to leave it until he has a stockpile,” Betty says, inventing a likely excuse.

“So,” Alice asks, “Why is Jughead alone on Christmas?”

Betty sighs. “He’s not alone. He’s with me.”

Her mother tuts. “You know what I mean. And I sure it’s none of my business, I’m just curious about this first serious relationship of yours since college! Sue me.”

Betty falters, fluttering a little at the fact that Alice has deduced they’re _serious._ “Same reason as me, I guess. Divorce. His family is much further away. Usually he goes home with Archie, but he’s with the Lodges this year.”

Alice is making her therapy face again. “I’m glad you have someone who understands what you’re been through, sweetheart. It can feel very lonely.” Her mothers voice wobbles, and Betty tightens her grip on Alice’s arm, as if they’re walking over a patch of ice. 

“I’m happy you’re here, Mom, and that neither of us is alone on Christmas.”

Alice’s eyes are watery. “Well, it’s a bit last minute for _me_ to find a bedfellow for the evening.”

Betty chuckles, relieved that this has already evolved into a joke. They’re approaching Rockafeller Plaza when Betty spots Jughead’s hat and his thin frame propped against a streetlamp, holding a tray of coffees. Looking briefly to her mother, Betty jogs ahead to greet him.

His cheeks are flushed with cold. “What are you—I thought you were meeting us later,” Betty says. 

She’s a little out of breath, happy to see him so soon. But still, they’d planned it this way to give Jug a break from the pretense of their relationship. (Ostensibly to give Betty a break, too, though she doesn’t mind the same way. Her stomach whirls at the thought that maybe he doesn’t mind too much either.)

Jug’s responding shrug and bashful smile only feed this fantastical inkling. “My errand was quick, so I had some time.” Then his arm winds around her, and Betty is tucked at his side. Even through the layers of coats, her body feels suddenly warm. 

They take photos by the tree—mostly Betty and her mother (“Betty told me you’re a photographer, I’ll trust you to find my angles,”) but of course Alice insists on taking one of Betty and Jughead. As she passes Betty’s phone back, Alice smiles at her. “A perfect Christmas Instant-Gram. You don’t have many photos with each other.”

Betty shrugs. “Jug is kind of private about that stuff.” Not a lie—Archie told her (vis a vis Veronica) that he never knew Jughead was dating their mutual college friend for nearly a year. “Also, mom, it’s Instagram. No ‘ant.’”

“Well!” Alice chimes at a louder volume, ignoring the aside. “I suppose you want to do some skating.”

“Oh,” Betty protests. “I mean, Jug doesn’t really—”

His arm comes around her again, drawing Betty seamlessly to his side. Jughead pushes, “Yeah, but don’t you love ice skating? You and Veronica go like, every other week in the winter.”

“Sure, but you don’t.”

“And aren’t you supposed to be a very good teacher? Professionally, even?”

Betty’s mouth hangs open.

“That settles it. I’ll be fine up here with my tea! Here—” Alice passes her wallet to Betty, presumably to pay for their skate rental.

On the benches with their rental skates, Jughead hesitates. “You have no idea what you’ve taken on, Betts. I have no idea why people want to slide on knife-shoes.”

Betty helps him lace the skates. “They should be as tight as possible.”

“Oh, so I’m not supposed to feel anything? Is that the idea?” 

“Tight skates prevent injury, and I’d rather not take you to urgent care with a twisted ankle. I’m your fake girlfriend, not your nurse.” 

His eyes are puppydog earnest when he replies, “I think you’d be a very charming nurse.”

The effect of her flipping him off is probably lost by how deep her blush goes. So much for getting by with pink tinted winter cheeks. 

Jughead stumbles a bit on the ice, clapping down hard on Betty’s shoulder a few times. “I’m regretting this deeply.”

Betty wants to retort _you didn’t have to come,_ but stops herself. She’s happy he’s here, holding to her upper arm too tightly. “Start with just walking. Gliding will start to feel easier.”

“Please, for the love of god, Betty, do not let me fall and look like a buffoon,” he pleads.

“No one is falling. Come on.” She takes a few steps with him, gradually speeding up to a moderate pace. By their second turn around the rink, he’s gliding. And hooting in accomplishment, which is a little embarrassing, but also adorable. 

“Is this what Christmas dates do in those movies you love so much?” Jughead asks. 

Betty rolls her eyes. “Maybe. It’s not that bad though, right?”

Jughead smiles his little smile, the one he sends her when he’s amused by something that he knows only she will catch, like Archie misusing a word. Betty wonders if this smile is specific, reserved for her, for jokes only they will catch. “No, it’s actually pretty nice.” 

They skate a while in silence, Betty leading and dragging him a little around the curves, until he breaks the silence with a subtle tip of the head towards her mother. “How many circles do we need to do so she’ll feel appeased?”

Betty giggles, slowing to a near stop to check her mother’s gaze in her periphery. “Oh Jug, she’s never appeased.”

When she turns back, Jughead is stopped too, staring at Betty with wide, soft eyes. The look transforms her stomach turn into a menagerie of butterflies, makes her so flustered she swears she’s about to melt a hole in the ice. “Wh—” Betty starts, but Jughead interrupts her. 

“Can I—” he starts, and Betty feels her head jerk in a nod, knowing and not knowing what’s coming. Feeling and somehow not feeling Jughead dip his face to hers.

Jughead is kissing her. 

She’s imagined this moment, the build up to kissing him, but Betty always stops at this point. Maybe because it was too hard to construct the right sensation in her fantasies; maybe she always hoped it would be sort of sacred.

And even though this kiss is, in reality, only as special as a stage direction, it still feels all the ways she’s stored up with longing in her heart—slow, warm, romantic. Betty tastes longing where their mouths meet, and she’s not sure it’s just her own. 

When they break apart, Jughead’s face still wears that soft look, only now the smile, _her_ smile is there, too. He swallows, and the slow bob of his throat makes Betty want to push him against the rink wall and kiss him again. And again. 

After a beat, Jughead asks,“Appeased or horrified?” 

It takes Betty’s brain a moment to catch up, to realize he’s joking and pointing towards her mother with his eyes. Betty lets out a long breath before taking his hand and leading them in the other direction. Sure enough, Alice is now fussing with something in her purse. “Definitely horrified. Did I tell you that earlier she called you my _bedfellow?”_

Jughead laughs a little louder and harder than she expects, and Betty follows, pleased to feel the nervous energy from their kiss dissipate a little. 

  
  
  


Betty has a hard time following the conversation at dinner. Alice badgers Jughead with questions about the gallery he works for, his upcoming show there, what kind of prospects that means, and of course, humiliatingly, how one affords to be an artist in Manhattan. Betty pretty much just watches his mouth. 

Jughead eats a normal amount, which is to say, like a high powered vacuum. Betty finds she’s not far behind, because if she has food in her mouth, she can’t be caught off guard by missing the conversation. As if sensing her distraction, or maybe just trying to win over her mother, Jughead asks Alice a lot of questions about the Register and how to stay afloat in small town journalism. “Betty left a very strong high school newspaper legacy behind, so I’ve been pulling high school kids to intern and help us run digital as well as print.”

At some point, Betty excuses herself to the bathroom and pulls out her phone. She gets as far as opening a message to Veronica and letting the cursor blink. It’s Christmas Eve, and telling Veronica that Jughead kissed her will only start a text storm, which her mother will be annoyed by. There is more to come, and Betty needs to take a deep breath and be an adult. So what if her brain is on a loop of tall, thick hair, good hands, best smile—isn’t she _supposed_ to act in love? 

“I _am_ in love,” she admits to the mirror before wiping mascara flakes from under her eyes. And maybe it’s about time she started making that clear. 

  
  
  
  


On the walk home from dinner, Alice stalks ahead, giving them another rare beat of time unaccompanied. Jughead slows them down—her arm is hooked securely in his—enough to whisper, “You okay?”

Her head is already nodding vigorously, her mouth opening to insist that she’s fine, but Betty stops herself. “A little overwhelmed, maybe.”

Jughead’s brow knits together, dimpling into concern. “Is it too much? We can—”

“No,” Betty shakes her head, gripping his arm tighter so he doesn’t get any ideas about pulling away. “It’s not you. You’ve been perfect, Jug.” She lets some of her bottled emotions out, and her voice shakes just a little. Instead of terrifying, it’s kind of relieving. It is not a full confession, but it’s something, and he’s got that soft look in his eyes again for a beat before a wry smile replaces it.

“I thought you hated that word.”

“I’m just as surprised as you.”

From the walk on, Betty’s not sure she’s ever _not_ touching Jughead. Instead of taking her breath away, it gives it back to her. The hand on her back through the elevator ride grounds her. They glide around the kitchen rolling dough and taking very strict directions from Alice about properly chilling the dough of their cut snowmen and moose before baking. When they come to rest, their shoulders and hips bump together, or her chin hooks over his shoulder to watch his icing skills. 

The first moment he steps away to the bathroom, her mother takes the rolling pin from Betty’s hands. “You know, I read too many things about children of divorce,” Alice starts, her voice suddenly a little shaky. Betty feels her own tear ducts prick in response. 

“And Polly has been with Jason so long that I never worried to much. But you—I’m just happy to see you so happy, Betty. I can tell he adores you, but even more importantly, he respects you.”

Betty swallows, more surprised about her mothers assessment of adoration than the respect part. “He does,” she affirms. “But mom, you’re not liable for my happiness or loneliness. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Alice wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and dabs at her eyes. “Oh sweetheart, clearly you haven’t considered a mother’s job description.”

Betty wraps her arms around her mom, squeezing tightly everything they’re already said, plus a little extra. 

  
  
  
  


As Cooper tradition insists, they watch _It’s A Wonderful Life._ Even more traditional—Alice is asleep by the time Mary whispers in Geroge’s deaf ear _I’ll love you til the day I die._

Despite the fact that there is no audience to pretend for, Betty stays curled up with Jughead, tucked beneath one of Veronica’s faux fur throws. One of her legs tangles with his, and their socked feet nuzzle together. 

Alice lets out a sharp snore, and Betty giggles into his shoulder. 

“I like her, you know. She has her charm.”

Betty scoffs, though today has been one of the best with her mother in a long time. “Charm?”

He shrugs, which she feels rather than sees, what with her head nestled in his chest. She’s beyond pleased to find that they fit like this—there is no awkwardness or shuffling. Perhaps that’s why they maintain the ruse. It’s comfortable.

“She reminds me of you, honestly. Don’t—” he shields his face as if she’s likely to hit him. (She considered it, briefly.) “Obviously there are major differences. But you both have good taste. You both care very passionately about things and being very accomplished at them.”

Betty huffs. “Yes, the classic Cooper stubbornness and aversion to failure.”

Jughead stokes his thumb absent mindedly along her arm. “I think both you and your mother are comfortable with the process of failure if it leads to improvement overall. I think that’s why you’re the only ones in your family who are willing to try with each other.”

She’s never considered this. “So you’re saying, you like my mother because you like me.”

Jughead sighs good naturedly. “Don’t make it sound like I maintain equal affection for you two.”

Betty feels all twisty inside, wondering how to probe such a comment into a more straightforward admission, perhaps. But then Jughead unpauses the movie. 

It’s not just politeness when she responds. “Well, I think she likes you, too.”

  
  
  
  


“Wow, this is pretty fucking dark for a Christmas movie,” he murmurs, a little raspy, when George Bailey stumbles upon his brother’s grave.

Betty scrunches her brow and looks up at him. “You’ve seen this, right?”

Jughead shakes his head. “My Jimmy Stewart impression is strictly Hitchcockian.”

She just smiles deviously. “I think I’m about to finally see it.”

“See what?”

“Just watch the movie,” she instructs. Her body grows ever heavier, but she wills herself awake all the way to the end.

Betty knows she’ll cry on cue as everyone starts flooding the Bailey house, pooling their savings for the eight thousand dollars he’s missing. But she feels something wet on her forehead just after George runs full speed into the house and kisses the broken banister. 

Jughead Jones is crying at a Christmas movie.

She waits until the credits roll to say anything, at which point, his face is a little puffy and eyes bloodshot, even in the dim light of the tv screen. “What!” he croaks, sniffling, as she grins victoriously at him. Betty bites her lip. She’s trying to memorize him like this, soft and vulnerable and holding her close. “You didn’t tell me that the underlying message of the movie was anti-capitalist! Of course I’m gonna cry!”

Before she can overthink it, Betty leans over and kisses one of his tear soaked cheeks. 

Pulling back, he’s looking at her like _that_ again, soft and hungry at the same time. 

Betty feels a paradoxical surge of power and helplessness. Jughead tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and then his face is dipping to hers again, his lips soft and urgent against hers. 

Betty answers back more eagerly this time, her fingers threading under his hat and hooking into his hair, pressing her chest flush against his. Jughead clutches her there, tugging her on top of him so that when Betty breaks for air, she knows she’s diving into the very deep end— 

And then her mother grunts. As if electrified, Betty jolts back, and Jughead straightens up, probing the crevices of the couch for his hat, lips tucked inside his mouth like he wants to hide where they’ve been. Betty’s face is one thousand degrees and they can probably hear her heartbeat all the way at her father and Penelope’s family Christmas upstate. 

“You know,” Alice says, clearing the sleep from her throat. “I haven’t seen this movie all the way through in more than twenty years.”

Feeling rather incapable of speech, Betty smiles and nods. 

“Well, I’m going to retire. Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” Alice reaches over and squeezes Betty’s hand. “Waffles in the morning. I’ll see you both then.”

Watching her mother exit to Jughead’s room, Betty feels the weight of her previous, pre-kissing exhaustion wash over her again as she melts into the couch. 

They should talk about what just happened. Or they should immediately pick up where they left off. 

But Betty knows she’s too tired for either option, and Jughead, as ever, seems to sense her shift. “Come on sleepy girl, let’s go to bed.”

  
  
  
  


Jughead goes to the bathroom while Betty fumbles through her room, pulling on her candy cane pajamas shorts and rooting through her drawer for a big t-shirt. Usually she sleeps bra-less, and she’s too tired to dig around for an old, stretched out sports bra, so she decides _fuck it._ She pulls on a sleep shirt, something very soft and well worn that she doesn’t pay attention to until Jughead opens the door and groans, “You’re trying to kill me.”

He’s looking at her chest, and at first she thinks he’s talking about the lack of bra, and gears up to defend herself. But when Betty looks down, she recognizes the S on the shirt. It’s his. She’d forgotten, her usual pajama drawer had been converted into his boyfriend drawer. “Shit, sorry—” Betty can’t take it off without giving him a big show, so she toys with the hem. 

“No, I mean—it’s just…” he trails off, and Betty thinks they both flush red at the same time.

“It’ll be a good cover. For your mom.” His voice strains a little, and Betty’s previous high plummets, as if she’s just been tossed off a cliff without warning. 

“Right,” she chokes out. Because it’s all just a cover. Even if whatever just happened on the couch felt decidedly real. Betty takes a deep breath and makes a swift path to untuck her duvet, trying and failing not to think about how he’d teased her so pleasantly about making her bed earlier.

And now he wants to make it clear that it’s just for cover. 

Her double bed has never felt small, even when Veronica has slept on the other side, too exhausted after nights of drunken girl talk to make it to her own bed. Jughead, however, is a lot bigger than Veronica. In the absence of either of them starting the conversation— _hey, so, about making out with you in the living room—_ the air feels thick, crackly with unspoken thoughts. 

Maybe it was just a moment, just him acting on instinct, just the sensations of pretense mingling with the emotions of the holiday, of the movie, of the tinkling lights on their walk home. But it felt— 

Perfect. Yes, she hates that word, but even Betty’s highly developed lexicon cannot produce a better descriptor. Her mind felt that blissful clarity and absorption, her brain handing the reins over to her body, and it felt like they were in sync.

“Juggie?”

“Yeah,” he answers, even though it’s probably been at least ten minutes since he turned out the light.

“Are you overthinking?”

“More than usual, yes.”

Betty swallows, eyes too heavy to look at him beside her, so she lays a hand on his arm instead. “Let’s just make it through tomorrow.” _And then we’ll talk. And then we’ll have out this tension, this awkward weight._

“Okay,” he sighs. After another long beat, he curls onto his side and wraps an arm around her middle. “Is this alright?”

“Yes,” she answers, wedging her back even deeper into his chest. The last thing she hears are his snores—but they’re soft, a pleasant white noise.

  
  


The next thing she hears in a loud rap on her bedroom door. The air smells like Christmas, or, well, like waffle batter. Betty stretches, whacking an arm into Jughead’s face. 

He grunts, then seems to register the knocking, too. Betty’s eyelids weigh one million pounds, and she slumps back down, burrowing into the warmth of Jughead’s chest.

“Betty! Jughead!” Her mother’s voice pitches an octave higher than usual. Betty grumbles. What the _fuck_ does she want?

The door swings open. “I hope you’re both clothed. Jughead,” Alice demands, firm though not quite seething, “I need to speak with you. Immediately.”

Betty sighs and pushes herself up. “Not you,” Alice points at her. “You stay.” 

So much, Betty thinks, for making it through the day.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Esias first debuted in this fic that this AU is an AU of, which is also a New Years fic, as Jughead and Archie's suit guy. Who they have because... Veronica. I missed him, so he came back. 
> 
> As always, would love to hear what you think!! Have a safe and happy New Year saying _bye, bitch_ to 2020!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told myself i would finish this before valentines day, so here we are, down to the wire. thank you for joining me on this absolutely trope-city journey, it's been so so fun!

Betty paces back and forth across her bedroom, feeling like a Victorian heroine. She’s picking her nails—a nervous habit developed in college to replace the more destructive ones of her teen years. She’s already tried listening through the door, but whatever tribunal Alice is hosting in the kitchen clearly falls into the category of whisper-rage. 

(Betty was raised on this: it is indecorous to scold your children in public, but acceptable if no one can hear you doing it.) 

Alice must have found something—a bank statement addressed to Jughead? A lease? No, there was no lease. Jughead and Betty don’t pay the rent. All of his stuff is jigsawed into her closet. 

Enough time has passed for the frustration to set in over her mother interrupting what could have been a _very_ pleasant way to wake up. Of course, spending the night wound up in the limbs of your supposedly platonic best friend was complicated—but it was also a safe zone from the world. From her mother. From their own messy decision making. It was a pause button on all the rest of it. 

Also, she just wants a damn waffle. It’s Christmas.

Betty’s just decided to sit and try some deep breathing when Jughead opens the door and shuts it swiftly behind him, like he’s trying to keep out the icy, seething anger of Alice Cooper from their temporary haven. 

His hair is mussed—he hasn’t put on his hat yet, and it’s in severe, adorable bed-head mode. A pale sweat has broken out on his brow, a classic symptom of being taken captive by Betty’s mother. He sighs, long and loud. Betty’s too nervous even to press him.

“You mom found Veronica’s ring in the kitchen. She thought I was going to propose to you on Christmas morning, or something.” 

Simultaneously, they both let out a relieved laugh, muffling themselves. Even though there are echoes of kitchen noises, Betty doesn’t trust that Alice’s ear isn’t pressed to the door. An awkward silence falls.

“So, um, what exactly did you tell her?” She doesn’t mean to make it sound like a test he needs to pass, but it comes out that way. Maybe it’s that he still looks a little shaken. Betty worries that maybe he’s revealed the truth behind their charade.

Jughead clears his throat for the third or fourth time. “Oh, you know,” he starts, his tone both sarcastic cavalier. “It’s Archie’s ring for Veronica. We’re hiding it. The whole spiel.”

He clears his throat again, looking at her and then at the wall. “And I said it would have been a little fast for us. And that I would warn her if…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely. Now he’s pacing. Betty stifles the urge to shake him. “You should probably go talk to her,” he says. 

Betty bites her lip, something about his tone tipping her from frustrated to guilty. “I’m sorry, Jug. I conned you into this whole act and now you’re in the vortex, too.”

He smiles, slightly. “There are advantages to the Cooper vortex, you know.”

Betty opens her mouth to ask what exactly he means, but Alice calls, “Elizabeth!” and she’s slinking out the door with a comically tense face that causes Jughead’s smile to spread even wider. 

Her mother is slicing an array of citrus and berries for waffle toppings. Without looking up from her paring knife, Alice greets, “Merry Christmas, dear.” It’s not a very enthusiastic greeting, but Betty supposes her mom has been through the emotional wringer already.

“Sorry for the heart attack, mom.” Perhaps, if she is calm, Alice will mimic her. Betty plants herself across the counter, palms flat on the granite surface to keep herself from picking her thumbs raw. 

“Shocking, yes, though more so because that thing is definitely worth over ten grand.” She’s deflecting, Betty can tell, trying to calm down. “But not _that_ shocking, in theory. You’re of marrying age. You seem very ready to live with this man.” Alice sets down the knife and looks up. “I am prepared to be very happy for you, Betty.”

Betty does not contain her expression of surprise very well at all. “Aren’t you worried that would be a little bit, um, fast?” She holds back a comment about ‘ _marrying age’_ out of sheer herculean effort.

Alice sighs—a therapy breath. Her mother takes her hand, as if imagining a ring on her finger. “There is a lot I am working through, since the divorce, but even longer than that. And I am not an expert on love, clearly. But honey, if there’s one thing I would not question, it’s the way that boy looks at you. Or talks about you.”

Betty flattens the urge to withdraw her hand, to deny that possibility with the vehemence she usually employs when third parties suggest anything about her and Jughead. 

And in the absence of her denial comes a flooding sense of clarity. For years, Betty has chosen to believe that Jughead cares about her, but not _for_ her. That because he is adverse to so many things—touch, tradition, raw expression of emotion—she could never supersede that boundary.

But perhaps, she always has. 

Even before the _practice,_ Jughead would never hesitate to hug her, even though Jughead doesn’t hug anyone. He’s gone above and beyond to make a good impression with her mom. He cried at a Christmas movie and didn’t care for a second that she saw. 

And clearly, even after being dragged from bed and poised to meet a horrific end via paring knife at the hand of your fake girlfriend’s mom—Jughead said some very nice things about her. Convincing, loving, adoring, _serious_ things. No wonder he was jittery. 

“He said that sometimes… he still feels like he’s convincing you that he loves you,” Alice adds, probing her back into the moment. “And I don’t want you to hold back from someone who loves you out of fear.”

Betty swallows hard, feeling the impact of her mom’s words, even if they make a different sort of sense. “I love him, mom. So much. He’s just as much my family as… you, or Polly, or Dad.” Despite her poor performance in front of Veronica, this confession is easy. It’s true.

“I’m just saying, honey. Loving and being loved are two different things. I learned that the hard way. Don’t accept anything less, okay?”

Betty squeezes her mom’s hand back, holding back tears.

Alice’s eyes are a little watery, too, but she steps away, refocusing on the breakfast preparations. “Well. I did tell him that when that day comes, a more thorough conversation will need to happen. But—if you could tell him—I’m sorry I had to bring up the background check so heatedly.”

Betty chokes on her own air. “The _what?”_

Alice blinks, innocent as a doe. “You sprang a new boyfriend on me! And you tried to pretend he doesn’t live with you! My god, Elizabeth, I’m not a simpleton. Your father couldn’t put away everything in the proper place in the kitchen for _years,_ and Jughead practically unloaded the dishwasher with his eyes closed! And don’t tell me you or Veronica bought that insane coffee machine.” She gestures to the high-end italian espresso machine, which takes up nearly a hefty section of counter space in the kitchen.

Betty mumbles, “Veronica _did_ buy it.”

Alice narrows her eyes.

“Fine,” Betty sighs, giving up. “For Jughead. As a gift.”

Her mother’s eyes burn with victory. Betty goes to the fridge to pour herself a mimosa. 

“Frankly, he handled it all very well. I could tell I stepped a little too far when asking about his salary—freelance photography income is hard to track down, and you were no help in the details of that department. _But_ he assured me that it’s over a certain threshold, which I was willing to accept.” 

Betty’s prosecco to orange juice ratio is about nine to one. She takes a big swig. “I cannot believe you, mom. This is some serious reversion for you.”

Alice carries on, undaunted. “Now, it’s definitely risky to date your roommate, but you two seem to make it work. Though, my god, Elizabeth, your bed is _very_ small for a man of his height. I would invest in something larger. It’s not going to be romantic forever.”

She sloshes a second heavy pour of prosecco into the glass. Her mother narrows her eyes at the bottle, but says nothing about it. “And just so you know, the whole _magnum_ condom thing is totally a toxic masculinity marketing scheme. Surprising, because he doesn’t really seem like that type.”

The second mimosa washes cleanly down in two gulps. Apparently it’s working, because the next part spills out without a second thought. “Well, Mom, they were a good bulk deal. I thought we should stock up for the holidays. We ran out over my last break. _Lots_ of thanks-giving, if you know what I mean,” Betty tops off her glass again and stalks out of the kitchen before she loses it completely.

Turns out maybe she _can_ silence Alice Cooper after all. 

  
  
  
  


Jughead is back in bed when she returns. Her bed. She never got a good look at him there. It’s strange, connecting these two things she knows so well that have never crossed over. She likes the way his hair halos across her pillowcase.

“I don’t know how many times in my life I can apologize on the behalf of my mother before I explode, but—I’m _very_ sorry about the background check thing.”

On her short walk from the kitchen, about ten additional ramifications hit her. Alice probably knows that Jughead’s dad was incarcerated. Or that he was a ward of the state under the guardianship of Fred Andrews. Alice didn’t say anything about these facts, probably, but it is still unfair and uncomfortable to have Jughead—the most private person Betty knows—robbed of that confidentiality. God, she’s going to need so many more drinks.

In response, Jughead just pats the bed. She flops onto the covers, her glass sloshing. She downs it to fix that problem.

“Stop spiraling, Betts. It’s kind of heinous, yes, but well within the predictable arsenal of your mother. I knew what I was signing up for this weekend.” His hand rests on her arm, and Betty craves the warmth of his touch even while it’s already present.

Betty blinks, reminded again that she’s gotten exactly what she was looking for—a sign. A massive, billboard size _Betty Cooper, you gigantic fucking idiot clown_ message blinking in proverbial neon lights—that Jughead would do literally none of this for any other human being except her. 

_He feels like he’s still convincing you that he loves you._

Jughead sits up so that they’re mirroring each other, cross legged on her bed. “The _thanksgiving_ quip was good. Bold, but respectable,” Jughead smiles through an expression that is clearly sleep deprived and additionally haggard by the morning’s circus. 

Betty can hardly smile for the sudden crackling of nerves in her limbs as she considers her next move. His hands are right there. She feels like a teenager, even though she’s certain she never felt this way about anyone as a teenager.

Reaching for his hands and weaving their fingers together feels like being launched out of a canon, expecting to land on concrete. Instead, she never lands—his hands capture hers like he was waiting, but the reality doesn’t hit. The ecstatic sensation of flying continues, making her tongue feel huge. Somehow Betty ekes out her words. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Stop,” he whispers. “If that’s how it worked—” Jughead stops himself. Betty can imagine the self depreciation he might have finished with and thinks she gets the point.

There’s a knock on the door. “Kids, the waffles are veering towards lukewarm.”

Still, even over an overly chipper breakfast narrated by Alice’s debate over whether or not to go gluten-free in the new year or the following inquisition about their own resolutions, Jughead touches his knee intentionally to hers and grins. Betty doesn’t really hear much else. 

  
  
  
  


Veronica gifts them matching fair isle sweaters—the kind of present that Betty knows made Veronica laugh maniacally, correctly envisioning Alice’s delight and Jughead’s grimace. His expression softens only when Betty kisses him on the temple and says, “It fits you really well,” with a not-so-subtle glint in her eye. (The mimosas are catching up with her. Her hands find him like a magnet over and over as they unwrap gifts—a hand to the elbow, the shoulder, the thigh.)

As predicted, Betty receives two sets of stemware from Alice—one for white wine, one for red. She doesn’t know how to tell her mom that her next apartment probably won’t have the cabinet space for these. But she also gets a gorgeous pink dress, something of a younger and older Betty Cooper. It is pink and tiered and has a lace overlay, but it’s exactly the kind of thing she’s been looking for to wear for Archie and Veronica’s engagement party.Jughead gets a set of espresso cups and the shoes that Alice had likely threatened the sales associate with a formal complaint to check the back room for. 

They break from opening gifts to use the espresso cups while Jughead video calls JB to thank her for the camera bag. Betty’s stomach flips when she hears JB ask in a not-at-all hushed tone, “Did she like it?” 

She’s suddenly jittery, even without the additional caffeine. Jughead ducks into the kitchen with a long side glance in her direction. Betty sits stock still on the sofa, devoured by butterflies until Jughead emerges a few minutes later. Determined to forge her way through the thrumming anxiety, Betty picks up her gift for Jughead and lays it on his lap.

He blinks slowly, like he hasn’t predicted this moment would arise. Unfastening the tape without tearing the paper, moving tenderly, bunching up the Nordstrom’s company ribbon, Jughead’s mouth goes slack.

“Is this…”

Betty waterfalls with nervous energy. “It’s a suit. It’s not tailored, but I promised Esias he could fit you.”

Jughead puffs out a laugh of disbelief. “Oh my god, Betts. This is—” he runs his fingers over the wool, his expression amazed and overwhelmed. “I love it. I love you.”

Her back stiffens, paralyzed at his words. Jughead looks frozen for a second, too, but he forges on. “Thank you,” he breathes, then kisses her, and even though it’s brief, all the blood in Betty’s body rushes to her face.

Alice spectates by tipping back her third mimosa, but more out of celebration, Betty notes, than exasperation. _Point Anti-Jason._

Jughead tucks the suit back inside the box with care before standing and retrieving the last gift. Her heart beats in her throat, trying and failing not to repeat JB’s words over and over in her mind: _did she like it? did she like it?_

It’s a large framed photo, clearly one of his, of red rocks and brush. The lighting is immaculate, glowing around the orange formations like a halo. But there is an envelope taped to the center, her name scrawled on the front in his handwriting, which makes her heart skip. Her hands fumble to open it. 

_Betty,_

_I took this out west, on that trip Archie and I went on during the blip of the great three-week Veronica and Archie breakup. It was my first time in seven different states, and every time we reached the summit on a hike, or wandered upon something interesting or surprising, I couldn’t enjoy it completely. The whole time, I was wondering if I would lose you, too, in the break up. I swore that if their fight blew over, I would make myself permanent to you. Maybe someday we’ll go out west. I’ll show you a mountain range and tell you, “I thought of you here.” I know I did here._

_Love, Jughead_

Betty feels the tear on her cheek before she knows it’s happening, hot rivulets of emotion. “Jug,” is all she can breathe. And then she kisses him, like everything is real, and like her mother isn’t even watching. 

  
  
  
  


Betty washes the dishes from breakfast, wearing her new dress that Alice had insisted she try on to ensure a proper fit. She’s trying not to splash it with soapy water, and trying to calm down after reading the letter from Jug. She’s in the kitchen alone with him now, but it’s too risky to talk, even if Alice is elsewhere. Then Jughead takes out the recycling, and before he’s even back, Alice is packed. Betty startles at the sight of the suitcases. 

Her mom smiles softly. “Polly called.”

“Oh, good!” Betty chimes, meaning it. Her sister often sloughed off the familial emotional labor onto Betty’s shoulders; it was relieving to hear she was trying harder. 

“She invited me to come for dinner tonight, after Penelope and Hal leave. So I’m going to take an earlier train, if that’s okay.”

Betty’s brow furrows. “Are you sure? I know this morning was… I was annoyed. But I’m really glad you like Jug, Mom. It means a lot to me.” 

She has no idea what’s going to happen once she and Jughead are alone in this apartment, or how this debrief is going to unfold. But if there is something, anything, unfolding between them, she wants to know that maybe Alice never has to know the difference. 

Her mom squeezes Betty’s hand. “Enjoy today with him, okay? I think you two deserve some alone time.” 

Even if nothing in her mother’s tone implies anything sexual, Betty’s mind leaps into the gutter. Clearing her throat, Betty agrees to walk her mom down to the lobby. 

They must pass Jughead at just the wrong moment, because he’s not downstairs. “Tell him, I enjoyed our conversation, and I’ll see him upstate next year.” Alice’s eye twinkles and Betty cringes for a beat. 

“Give Polly and the twins a hug from me, Mom.” Alice squeezes her into an embrace. 

“Of course. And let your therapist know, Dr. Glass will be reaching out in a few weeks for our annual joint session.” Betty laughs and cringes. Of course they’ll leave on this note. 

Alice has hailed a cab when Betty pivots back to elevators, the weight of her mother's presence finally dissipating and a deep sense of freedom relaxing her shoulder blades down her back. Then, Manuel stops her with a, “Miss, I mean, Betty. Miss Betty.” 

(She’s been asking him to stop calling her that for years.)

She turns expectantly, and Manuel gives a sly smile. “I know it’s none of my business. But I’m real glad you and Jug finally talked.”

Betty feels herself turn scarlet when she begs off. The ride to the top of the building has her stomach swooping in ways she’s never felt before. It’s probably not the elevator ride at all. 

  
  
  
  


He stands up from the couch when she enters, hat in hand, as if she’s the President of the United States. 

“At ease,” Betty chuckles.

He does not appear to relax, even after she flops down onto the couch beside him. He’s rubbing his hands against his thighs. The silence feels itchy, probably for the first time in their entire friendship. Something new crackles in the air, burning like smoke in Betty’s lungs as she tries to take a deep breath. There is no back-to-normal, no _only 36 hours_ anymore.

Someone has to say something, so Betty bites. “How long?”

It’s not the right question, she knows right away. It’s too much to start with. But they’re nervous; the loss of an audience has the reverse of its predicted effect. 

But there is a slow, gradual smile creeping across Jughead’s face as he picks at the pompoms on one of Veronica’s throw pillows. “Once you _know,_ you look back, and it’s impossible to convince yourself that it wasn’t immediate. At least, unconsciously.”

This, Betty supposes, is true. There was something about Jughead that she fixated on right away, something she was desperate to unlock. It was that intense need to be liked by someone—her constant impulse, really—but magnified so much because she sensed that Archie’s unlikely friend would leave the high school football game he’d been dragged to with even more dramatic of a chip on his shoulder. It was her job to change that, to capture his attention by asking about his most influential photographers. Then they got onto the topic of favorite documentaries—the rest was history. But still, she hadn’t known _immediately._ Not like she knows now. 

Jughead continues, still fidgeting. “Do you remember when we met Archie and Veronica for dinner at that place in the Bowery? And you got a call during dinner about your student.”

A lump fills Betty’s throat. It was a few weeks after their first meeting, probably the third or fourth time they’d been pulled along to hang out with Archie and Veronica. One of her sophomores at the time was in the hospital, her mother in critical condition after an accident. Her principal had called when no one was available to go wait with her at the hospital—her father was incarcerated, her aunt was at work, their neighbor stranded watching her own toddlers. 

“You started putting on your coat, asking for the hospital information. You didn’t hesitate for a second, not a fucking _blink._ Not to eat another bite of food, not a single look around for permission from the rest of us. Someone you cared about needed you. And I thought, that was it. I have never seen anybody care about other people like you do. And I had never cared about anybody like I cared about you.”

This answers her original question: two years. A year before Archie and Veronica would temporarily break up after a fight at Veronica’s 26th birthday party. A year before he took that trip out west. Betty winds her own memory back, trying to put a timestamp on her own revelation, until Jughead interrupts. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to out-pine me,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry. For feeling like I had to shield you from… taking it all on. All of me and my jagged history and family darkness.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can—you do. You have. For a long time.” They’re both whispering now. 

She turns to face him, daring him to stop talking into the air. “Those three weeks they broke up were fucking terrible, Jug. Veronica was so angry, and then so sad, and I spent every day bringing her coffee in the morning so that she would get out of bed and go to work. Trying to act like I wasn’t broken, too, but I felt shattered. Like I was the one who had just lost the love of my life, only I had to pretend I was okay, for her.”

His throat bobs twice on _love of my life._

“And all I got you was this suit. Just a _thing,_ an item, nothing with meaning or sentiment—” 

He shakes his head, finally turning and touching the skirt of her dress. “No, it’s not. The suit reminded me how you always show me that I deserve to be cared about. You do that for everyone, Betty. It is the thing I… that’s what I love most about you. That’s why I said… what I said.” 

His fingers hook around the folds of her skirt. For some reason, this is what steals her breath. 

“I want to be permanent to you, too, Jug,” Betty whispers

Relief breaks across his brow, and just like that, she’s swinging her leg over his lap cradling his jaw to steady the suddenness of their joining.

And this kiss _is_ different without the audience. Betty dissolves into him, her hunger and urgency spurred on by Jughead, who clutches her with desperation, possession. His fingers trail a line down her spine, bare from the keyhole back of her dress, eliciting a full body shiver and arching herself into his chest. With surprising deftness, Jughead unzips her dress, his hands splaying warmly across her back. Her mind buzzes pleasantly as he mouths down her neck, sparks of desire igniting immediately. Betty recalls fantasies of this exact moment, all paling in potency to the real thing. 

But then she remembers what she’d been building up to the whole conversation. “Wait wait wait, I need to tell you something.”

Jughead dips lower, continuing to press kisses and light suction into her cleavage. He’s breathless when he responds thickly, “What is it?”

Betty takes the moment to see him, unwound and eager, brow pleated with tenderness. She smooths a thumb over a wrinkle of worry. “Nothing, I just—I love you, too. And I want you. All of you.”

Jughead sighs jaggedly as he reaches to embrace her again, and Betty surrenders everything into their kiss.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The New Years Eve flashmob proposal goes off flawlessly—Jughead jokes that they’ll end up in one of those ridiculous Youtube compilations. 

“You’re really admitting that you have watched those before? Jughead Jones, I hardly knew thee,” Betty ribs as they Uber back to the apartment, rushing to set up the engagement party. Or rather, to let in the catering services, floral deliveries, hired DJ, and manned bar, which is again, mysteriously covered by Archie—which Betty senses is code for _Hiram gave him an American Excess card for engagement and wedding expenses._

“My mom posts them a lot,” he defends, but Betty just hit him with a _sure_ look. But even his grumpiest frown could endear her right now. They’ve spent the last six hours around Archie, helping set up, pretending nothing has changed between them in the past week. Like they aren’t now sleeping in Betty’s bed every night, or going down on each other in the hallway because they can’t make it to the bedroom. (This is the memory that causes her face to flame when she catches Jughead crouching at a particular angle while he was setting up one of the several hidden cameras.) Forget falling asleep during a documentary about disaster capitalism they’ve watched ten times—there are much better ways to occupy the couch. 

Suffice to say, finally being alone with him in the back of a car is burning her alive a bit, and Jughead tries to curb a gleeful smile when he notices the way she’s looking at him.

Unfortunately, there is too much to do when they arrive. Trey helps with the floral delivery that has overtaken the lobby, but then they’re positioning the arrangements around the apartment, letting in the catering staff, double cleaning the bathroom, and texting to confirm and coordinate with Archie whenever he has a chance to surreptitiously glance at his phone during the post-engagement private boat ride he and Veronica are on. 

Keeping their relationship secret will be worth it for the next couple days if it lets Veronica and Archie have the moment they deserve. Not that Betty is really that worried about upstaging them. “Even among our friends,” Jughead had argued, “I feel like everyone will shrug and be like ‘cool.’ We already live together. Everyone already makes couple jokes about us anyway.” 

“They do?” Betty asked, mystified. “Like who?”

Jughead rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Everyone. Usually just variants of _stop looking at her like that and just...”_

“And what?” she teased. (Then he showed her, pressed against the refrigerator, sending them both into a fit of laughter when Betty’s keen at him palming her breast set off the ice machine.) 

Still, it is Veronica’s day, and Jughead only really protested when Betty laid down the no-touching rule. “You know Veronica. Her hormone radar is world-renowned.”

With each arrival of their friends, they smile politely through quips about their _cozy roommate situation._ Betty feels a little silly for missing all these comments before, or overlooking them. But it’s fine; let them all think they’re still pining away for now. 

Archie and Veronica arrive with fanfare; the DJ plays Archie’s request of Hall and Oates, Veronica doing a cute, gleeful spin under his arm on _you make my dreams come true_. Betty attacks them both with hugs; her happiness for them feels pure and untainted. The catering staff of a five-star Oaxacan restaurant pass appetizers, which distracts Jughead’s hands enough to stay off her waist or shoulder on accident. 

Betty easily distracts herself in the flood of greeting friends and attending to Veronica, who swings between emotionally clinging to Betty or Archie, or flinging herself into the crowd for group energy and congratulations. It’s only when Veronica pulls her into the kitchen for a second round of bestie tequila shots that something slips.

“Your dress is _amazing._ Peak Betty. I bet beanie boy has been studying you all night, thinking about how he’d like to get you out of it.”

Betty knocks the shot back, following with the wash of lime to break the heat of the _anejo._ More alcohol is just more of an excuse for her flushed complexion. 

“Wait,” Veronica grabs her other wrist. “You never gave me _any_ deets on Christmas Faux Beauxs! _Please_ say you got a photo in the matching sweaters, I need fresh blackmail content for dear Torombolo.” 

Betty mashes her lips together, but the rush of the evening and loose feeling of her tongue leave little for her best friend to interpret.

“Oh my god. _Oh my god._ How _dare_ you try to keep this from me in a valiant, selfless Betty Cooper manner!” 

“Ronnie, you’re _yelling,”_ Betty whispers, pleading.

Narrowing her eyes mischievously, Veronica marches out of the kitchen and towards Betty’s bedroom. Betty stumbles behind. Sensing the commotion, Jughead ducks out of a group conversation across the room. 

The bedroom is tidied; Betty wasn’t the sort to leave anything unkempt during a party, even with her door closed. But there are two water glasses, one on either side of the bed. Jughead’s pulpy crime novel is dog-eared on one side. Jughead sweeps into the room behind them, shutting the door.

“Oh my god. _Please_ tell me that you’ve already plowed through that entire box of condoms,” Veronica gasps when her Alice decoy prop is not where she left it.

Jughead blanches (probably at the _plowed_ verb choice), but Betty answers, however uncomfortably. “I donated them to a teen health clinic down the street, V.”

Veronica’s brow furrows, as if _this_ is the foil in her thinking.

“Veronica, I’m on _birth control._ You literally came to my IUD appointment.”

Her best friend squeals. “Finally. _Finally._ Oh, come here Juggie,” Veronica tugs him into a dual hug, which he suffers with a half adoring, half pained look at Betty. “Of course, I appreciate your efforts not to steal the show. But honestly, I’m sure most people will hardly think twice about you two tucked into a dark corner together around midnight.” 

Jughead mumbles, “That’s what I said.”

Betty rolls her eyes and clears her throat. “Well really, we have you to thank. Your ring caused a bit of a stir…”

Veronica squeezes them again. “Well, you know I would take responsibility no matter what, but carry on. Leave nothing out."

  
  
  
  


Five minutes before midnight, Jughead corners her. “Does this mean I can kiss you at midnight? Now that she knows?”

There is still a whole crowd of people standing around their apartment who do not know, Betty wants to argue. But she takes Veronica’s words from before into consideration. “I think we can sneak away for a minute.” 

There’s a tiny balcony off Veronica’s (and Jughead’s) old bedroom. Sure, people will notice they disappeared. And it’s absolutely freezing. Betty shivers under a flannel of Jughead’s, and they squeeze outside, arms pretzeled together and around one another, bracing against the wind. But it’s worth it for a soft and private _happy new year,_ and the requisite fireworks off rooftops. 

Betty thinks she’s never felt quite so happy or new in any year of her life.

  
  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed this conclusion <3 let me know what you thought!! basically the best possible valentines, all of you <3
> 
> (also the referenced doc about disaster capitalism is called The Shock Doctrine, highly rec)

**Author's Note:**

> as ever, thanks to heartunsettledsoul, the wind beneath my wings.
> 
> let me know what you thought!! your comments are all my christmas miracles.


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